As Luck Would Have It
by CecilPress
Summary: The year is 1999, Snakes N' Barrels is done with, the shadowy past of Dethklok begins to come together under the watchful eye of the Church of the Black Klok. Rated M now for Skwisgaar n' hoes. Minimal Charles/Pickles, Sammy/Pickles... Semi Hiatus but still watchin'.
1. The Beginning of the End

**Update:**

**Rewriting this because I think it could have been clearer than what it was.**

**Fic is centric of the band just after SnB breaks up, before Dethklok is formed. I've gotten myself confused about a few of the facts but I'm sticking to the series as best I can. There are some faults that I acknowledge, so if you really care as much as I do you can take these into account;**

**Firstly, the series kind of implies that the boys, besides Pickles, haven't really been to Los Angeles before… For such a famous band, I think that's kind of hard to go along with, so for purposes of writing, it's a place that they will briefly visit.**

**Secondly, it's hard to tell when the band was formed, when Snakes N' Barrels broke up, etc, so I've again just made a choice there…**

**Okey, so, uhm.**

**Will be slash, I can't bring myself to write any OOC or not according to my head canon, so as of chapter 10 there is still no smut. I'm sorry. I have written some, but it's not in here yet. Chapter 11 might have some Skwisgaar stuff. **

**If I ever get to the point where the whole band is together then expect it!**

**All in all this is a before-the-band-was-a-band story, we open in 1999.**

* * *

He could never sleep in a city. The traffic outside the motel window only slowed once the clock ticked past 3 am. That witching hour struck the streets silent. The wail of a siren in the distance was the only disturbance in the twilight of dawn besides the occasional scuttle of a lonely vehicle.

It stank. Cigarettes. Beer. Vomit. He hadn't left the room for a day, if not a few hours more. The Snakes N' Barrels gig had trailed into the night, he and his band members drank together as though nothing was wrong, though they'd just ended their final farewell tour performance. They had a penthouse suite at the Marriott. Pickles hadn't sobered up enough to recall why he wasn't staying with his bandmates. But he had his bag. A change of clothes and his arsenal of travel-booze was enough to keep him content in the isolation of his stagnant motel room.

Professionally, things weren't going badly for the frontman. He retained his manager, who had already set up auditions and interviews with a number of other musical projects. He was an amateur engineer, that skill alone would get him by if everything went to shit. His band was popular all over America, and it had spread in patches to the rest of the world.

Admittedly, the band had been on a downturn for a number of years. The best times were neighing on 8 years ago, at the end of the 80's. Since then they'd been living a fantasy, the size or nature of a gig didn't matter when they were always imagining it to be something better. Plus, residuals would continue to flow in. His skill as a frontman had not gone unenvied. He could even play the drums, though he had never done so on stage. This skill had only been utilized when he wrote material for his now deceased band.

Dawn was peeking. It was Sunday. He hadn't slept since Thursday, though his memories of the time he'd been awake tended to lapse as if he were indeed asleep. The singer was in his underwear. His long scarlet hair, beginning to thin at the front, was pulled back in a messy ponytail. He was sitting. Slouched, on the side of the bed closest to the window.

Only months ago the grey singlet he wore would have clung to the lean, sinewy muscle of his chest, now it hung loose, the fabric pooling a little in his lap as he sat forward, elbows resting on his skinny jean-clad thigh. He swung his leg clumsily, shuffling forward enough to permit him to stand, grabbing his cigarette pack. He stepped to the window, bare feet dragging on the liquor-stained carpet.

The window fogged against the palm of his hand as he pulled the frame upward. The fresh air against his face sharpened his headache. He would draw the blinds once the sun came up, but the redhead enjoyed the beginning of dawn. It was only towards the end, when he had to watch the world wake, that his distaste for daylight kicked in.

He lit the red bic in his hand, expertly coaxing the flame to his waiting parliament. Draping his hands over the window's ledge he exhaled. A siren moaned in the distance. He exhaled a mixture of smoke and heated breath. It dispersed into the dusky sunlight. He would have to pull himself together eventually. Taking a second drag on his stoag he cocked his hip, letting his head hang. Exhaling. His head pounded.

Whatever happened last night would have had to have been pretty fucked up for his brain to so steadfastly refuse to recall it. Lifting his head Pickles squinted out at the cold morning, his exposed skin turning to gooseflesh.

An argument. A bar fight. Twinskins had been way too fucked up. Or maybe he was to blame. Someone got arrested.

Pickles shook his head, coughing as his exhale smoldered in the slight wind. He was tired of it happening. That's why the band had to end. It wasn't that the drugs were bad, the drugs were fucking awesome. The chemistry between them fucked things up too often. He couldn't stand Tony. He and Sammy fought too. Snizzy Snazz would get too deep, there was nothing more annoying than fucking Bullets on a dope kick.

His stomach felt a little queasy. Sammy had hit on him last night. He hated the faggot touching him in public like that. He'd punched him in the nose. That was the only discernible, clear memory he could conjure.

A sharp pain in his wrist. Where he'd been unconsciously scratching, he'd knocked the scab off of a track wound. The blood started to swell into a ball, standing out from the orange freckles and dull pot marks on the underside of his wrist. His black leather watch told him it was edging on 6 am. He flicked his cigarette and turned away from the window, stretching his arms above his head. Fuck. He needed a shower. And a drink. He pulled at the elastic of his underwear with one hand and reached for the minibar with the other.

Cold beer, hot shower. A fucken' perfect combination.

* * *

Classical music was totally metal. Magnus Hammersmith's fingers glided lithely up and down the neck of his guitar in time to the tune of Clementi's Sonatina Op.36 No.6 (in D Major). Serial killers liked classical, he'd read that somewhere. And it was great for practicing guitar too. Before electric guitars existed, piano would have been the best music out there, he thought. And those were the days when people cut each other's heads off with swords and stuff, right? Fucking badass.

From the look of Magnus's house you probably couldn't tell much about him. The rooms were spotlessly clean, though the place was mostly empty except for essential furniture. The only personal effects Magnus kept around was his small guitar collection (plus accessories), the bonsai tree by his bed and an almost full bookcase, holding a few dusty photo albums alongside an array of novels.

He was reclined in his arm chair in front of a muted television. His feet rested on his coffee table, resting on it also was a mug, containing coffee, and the most recent issue of Rolling Stone magazine.

The coffee he'd made himself was getting cold. He forced himself to break the tune and set his guitar aside, leaning forward to grasp both mug and magazine. As he was sitting back, a familiar face flashed onto the screen of his television.

Skwigelf – the fastest guitarist in the world. He had been on the cover of Rolling Stone 3 times in a row now, and the magazine in Magus' lap confirmed a 4th appearance. Any musician worth his salt knew the Swede on appearance. He faltered for a moment, almost forgetting the mug of liquid he was holding, and reached then for the remote, unmuting the 40 inch screen.

"-released a demo with fresh faced death metal singer, Nathan Explosion. The song leaked early this morning from the guitarist's personal website. It has since been reportedly downloaded over 50 Million times!" The image of the pretty news reporter disappeared, being replaced by a spotty teenager, a microphone being shoved in his face.

"It's fucken awesome man! I mean… Skwisgaar hasn't fucken rocked this fucken hard since he was in fucken Sausage Assassin! SKWISGAAR RULES!" a second, fatter boy appeared the screen.

"Yah uhh, he's always just, like, uhh.. Wayyy too awesome for his shitty bands y'know? I like his solo stuff best, but uuh, this singer dude he's got now?.. They just sound, like, made for eachother." The man muttered "that sounds fucken' ga-" Static…

Back to the studio. "Skwigelf is a notorious band-hopper, but will the sudden popularity of his new front man cause the duo to stick together? Many fans hope so!"

She was silent again, Magnus' finger held the mute button. Nathan fucking Explosion. He looked down at Skwisgaar's face on the magazine. Nathan fucking Explosion recorded a song. With Skwisgaar Skwigelf?! The coffee mug fell from his lax hand to the floor, spilling on the creamy white carpet.

He looked different on the big screen. Standing next to Skwisgaar he was extremely intimidating, being an extra half as wide as the slender blonde. His hair was longer since high school, in fact it didn't look as though he had thought to cut it since then. He was fit, too. Superman muscle across his broad chest, his arms bulged out from his sleeveless tank top.

Once his best friend, Magnus imagined Nathan had ended their relationship out of jealousy. Not paying much attention to either school or music left him far behind Magnus once he started playing solo gigs at local clubs. Magnus moved into a nicer neighborhood, started buying nicer clothing, and Nathan's attitude towards him started to sour.

He'd tried to teach the man guitar, but his thick fingers and short temper ensured he never got very good at it. He hadn't thought Nathan had much of an ear for music, so how the fuck did he fall in with the likes of the best guitarist out there?

It wasn't going to matter. He got a lucky break, he wouldn't last. He couldn't handle it. But Magnus could. He forgot the spilt coffee altogether, rising from his chair. On the counter was his address book. His information had to be in there somewhere. As he flicked through the pages with one hand, his fingers dialed a number on his cellphone.

"Andrea, it's me. I need a flight… No, personal business. Yes. Yes. Well, cancel them, I'm having the week off. Yes. Okay. Los Angeles, please. Tomorrow. You'd better come too. Goodbye." Business could wait. What a perfect time it would be to catch up with an old friend.

* * *

"Fuck. How the fuck do you deal with that all the time." Nathan Explosion slapped a wet towel to his aching forehead. The last 24 hours had been a total blur. He never expected any of this. Interview after interview all day, cameras flashing in his face, it was hard work, it was embarrassing, it was fucking brutal.

"Ja, it is likes, you just lookingks at de attractive ladies alls day, instead of payings your attentions to the camaera mans… Or the mans with de questions abouts the… musics." Skwisgaar almost trailed off as he flicked his head, waving over his shoulder at the women standing in audience of the panel they had just attended, this gesture was received with high pitched screams that rattled the singers head.

"Uggghhhh it's just like.." he let out a heavy exhale. "That was only one fucken day you know, like, what if it was two fucken days. Just thinking about that makes me want to cut my ears off."

"If it's more thans a few days thens you's gets used to's it, ja?" The blonde had turned again, pushing open the backstage door. Outside it was mild and dusky, and the guitarist's chaperone had the headlights of the car running across the small parking lot.

"I gotta have a smoke man, my throat is killing me. Talkin' all day like that – it's bullshit that's what… That's what that is…" Nathan muttered, fumbling with his pack.

"You cans smoke in de car, you's knows. We woulds have to be gettings going or de fans will get around securities." Skwisgaar's voice dropped on the sour note of 'fans'. He was unenthused by them to no end. Nathan lit his cigarette and the pair walked to their waiting car. "Anyways, de day ams beingks overs now. What am you wanting to be doingks tonight, Nathan?"

"I just wanna fucken relax, take it easy, maybe have a bath, have a really hot bath."

"You wants to go to a bar?"

He paused. "Yes. – Wait. How can you go to a bar?"

"Dere is nots just one kinds of bars in this city." Skwisgaar plucked the cigarette from Nathan's hand and wound down his window, taking a couple of drags for himself before handing it back. The wind buffered their hair, creating a plume of black and yellow in the back seat of the hummer as they tore down the 405 highway.

They stopped by Nathan's hotel in Venice to drop off their gear, They'd been lugging around Skwisgaar's guitar and amp since early that morning. Nathan was amazed with the amount of creativity Skwisgaar harnessed in shaking his fans. The hummer left without them, and out of the window of the high-rise he could see a couple of cars start their engines and tail it away up Abbot Kinney.

They took a second car instead, non-descript, from the back of the hotel. The guitarist always had a driver, Nathan chalked that up to his success. They drove away from the beach towards Culver City, Skwisgaar was smoking now, his gossamer hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. Traffic was easy and they turned onto Centinela Boulevard, and following that a short network of side streets that Nathan couldn't catch the name of. The driver needed no direction.

The bar was small, sandwiched between two greasy restaurants serving late night Mexican food. The bar contained few occupants, a group of men playing pool down the back, a couple of solitaries at the bar itself. No one in the place looked up, except for the bartender, who gave them an ignorant wave. No one could possibly know who Skwisgaar was. Not here, not this socioeconomic bunch.

"Fucken' smart. I bet no matter how famous you are you can always find somewhere where no one knows who you are." Skwisgaar ordered them both Coronas.

"Ja, sos far I am nots having a problems with dat." He swigged his drink.

"Dis is.. Too easy." He waved a hand at the bartender, who turned and plucked a brandy bottle from up high.

They sat in silence for a moment, Skwisgaar, upon receiving his drink, downed the whole thing in one shot. Nathan was a little uncomfortable. He hadn't had a chance to really speak to Skwisgaar about his sudden fame. The two were friends on chance, Skwisgaar happened upon him at a karaoke bar one night. Everyone was singing for fun, but Nathan's Sepultura rendition piqued the guitarist's interest. Nathan declined Skwisgaar's offer of a career, but the two had remained friends.

The viral song – Bleeder Problems, was never meant to BE released. The duo were messing around at a studio in Hollywood. Skwisgaar had taken him with him to record some demo, and a bottle Jager later Nathan submitted to the Swede's desire to record a song. They'd left the mixer on, the laptop on, everything. Having the song uploaded was possibly the best case scenario for the guitarist, but for Nathan, it was a little daunting. He was a music fan. He didn't _do_ music.

"Skwisgaar I don't wanna be famous." He blurted. Staring ahead, brow furrowed, he grabbed his beer in his fist and drank.

"I thinks it ams a bit lates now, Nathans."

"I can't sing." He said in a quiet voice, second guessing both sides of his statement.

"It ams not singking you am doingks." This was a literal truth. There was little melody to be found in Nathan's deathgrowls.

"I thinks it wills be growingks on you. Just waits." A pregnant silence fell upon them, Skwisgaar ordered more drinks.

"Do-"  
"I-"  
They spoke together.

"I'm sorry, you-"  
"Nos, yous, -"

"No I think... I think you should go first."

"Do you thinks you coulds be in a band?" Nathan didn't answer fast enough.

"I am goingks to be dones with this ones. You knows you can'ts stay with thems who is, flogging de, dead horses… I ams always knowingks more musicians. I wants you to sing, you ams… metal." Nathan was getting tipsy now. He had a lot to turn over. Although, in his drunken state, the facts were still easily discernible. He was currently unemployed, he couldn't hold down a retail job, he didn't really have any direction, and he once wished he could be in a band. Only his worries seemed to be keeping him at bay. Fuck it, he thought, he could change his mind later, blow out of there back to Florida.

"Yeah. I think I could be. It's a big jump though from nothing to being like… Singing with, Skwis- Skwisgaar Skwigelf."

"That ams nots mattering." The blonde let out a coy smile, twirling his long hair in his fingers. Behind him three white girls entered the bar, obviously intoxicated, giggling loudly as American girls did. The Swede didn't notice, but Nathan craned his neck to look at them.

"There's – uh.. Ther'es girls in here Skwisgaar."

"Oh, ja?" The Swede didn't turn his head, he pulled a face at Nathan as if he had said something stupid, so the larger man quickly changed the subject.

"What should I do now?..." The girls had walked by them now and the shortest of the three had her eyes fixed on the blonde. After staring a moment her eyes widened and she began tapping her friends rapidly on the shoulders, whispering frantically. How dumb, Nathan thought. Girls trying to be incognito by lowering their voices, when their natural state was a giggling, squealing hell.

"You ahh…" He was clearly distracted. "You cans ahh, gets back home when you likes… I'm glad we had this talk Nathans." He didn't even look at the singer as he patted him on the back, flinging a 50 onto the bar, before leaving his chair to saunter towards the wide-eyed women.

It ended as abruptly as that. Nathan finished his drink and nodded at the bartender, rising quickly to leave. By his logic, if these girls knew Skwisgaar, then they might well know of him now too. The last thing he wanted was more goddamn questions.

Outside he lit a cigarette and shut himself inside the nearest payphone, dialing a taxi. He'd have his bath now, if only. If only he could remember the address of his fucking hotel.


	2. Making Me Nervous

This has been a pretty fast update… I don't think I'm going to be able to keep up posting a chapter a day, but I'll do the best I can…. It's hard starting off when everyone is separated. I'm much looking forward to writing scenes were they are all together.

Oh and ah – Someone's concern from chapter 1 was of a Nathan/Skwisgaar ship, and as hilarious as that may be I assure you that's not going to happen. I WILL do some kind of slash but hopefully you guys will be deciding who/who for me. I'm still struggling with timeline issues, but whatever, the Metalocalypse universe is magic as fuck.

Oh, ah, also, since this was a long time ago, you might notice characters not acting as you might expect, they're still learning, I promise they will grow into the calloused clowns we all know and love soon enough.

* * *

One of the reasons Pickles got away with his rampant drug use was the ease by which he cleaned himself up. A half hour and a bathroom sink was all he needed, along with his makeup bag, of course. It was Monday afternoon, and he'd spent the previous day shaking hands with various industry personalities.

It wasn't that he didn't want to get back into working again, he just wasn't feeling it. And you know what? It didn't matter. It didn't matter if he didn't feel good, it didn't matter what state he was in or what he said to anyone. It was expected from him. There was no way he could act out that would be noticed as out of the ordinary by anyone.

He'd already dolled up for the evening. He didn't _need_ a hit, it was just that something to take the edge off might be nice. He pulled up a suitcase from under the bed, laying it out on the floor. _Fear and Loathing_ was put to shame. Perhaps the variety was not as wide, but he was always overstocked in his favorite vices. His manager had warned him to keep it on the down low for the afternoon's appointment, so he skimmed over the harder drugs.

He decided in the end he'd just get old fashioned high. He toked on his glass pipe, lying back on the carpet as he exhaled. In the stagnant room the smoke rose in a cloud above him. His senses dulled. He immediately regretted the decision. There was only one thing for it. He didn't like to mix cocaine with weed. It heightened his paranoia, made him agitated, but he could focus on a higher level. He tapped out a line and took it. He hadn't smoked much, and though the line was big, it would wear off in an hour or so. By then he assumed he would have expired from boredom anyway.

Scowling, he went to the bathroom to check himself again. His hair stayed up, his eyeliner was flawless. His jeans were getting a little baggy again, when he shifted his hips they would drop down a few inches, the curve of his abdominals clearly visible under his almost translucent skin.

He shrugged, snatching his carabiner from the sink. His alarm was going off. It was time he stepped out. He packed up his suitcase, clasped his keys to his belt. Backpack. Smokes. Sunglasses.

After checking out, he slung his possessions into the trunk of his car. His manager owned a small studio on Sunset, with a boardroom and stocked fridge. He was fuzzy on the details of the meeting, having not paid attention to very much at all in the last week or so.

He pulled up to the studio lot, slinging his sunglasses onto his face as he lifted himself from the leather interior of his car. Across the parking lot his manager was waiting, holding the door. Ausfentera Genfenko. He was actually one of the better managers he had ever had. He had no part in the Snakes N' Barrels deal, Pickles had hired him personally once things started going badly for them as a whole. It was much easier to have someone else decide what choices he should make when he was so out of it all the time.

He murmured hello and stepped inside ahead of him, still dragging on his cigarette. Genfenko protested but the redhead took no heed. The place could have been a small warehouse. Posters adorned the walls picturing bands who had once recorded there. These were not all Genfenko's productions, of course. He rented the place out to other bands when he needed the money, and their added signatures decorating the place did make it look quite professional.

Pickles removed his sunglasses as he walked up the stairs to the third floor, puffing on his cigarette from the side of his mouth. He smoothed back his hair a little, though it sprung back up once his fingers had passed through it.

Waiting in the boardroom were 2 men. One he recognized, the other he didn't. Wasn't gonna matter anyway. He flicked his eyes from one to the other, nodding his head before quickly taking his seat. He rested his elbows on the table and dropped his head as Genfenko started talking behind him.

"Gentlemen, nice to see you again, this is Pickles." Without raising his head he stuck his hand up and waved it once to the other side of the table.

"And Pickles, this is Mr Tengo Wewaschlagen and Mr Ofdensen." He still didn't look up. We-wa… Whatever was someone he must have worked with once. The other name rang no bells.

"Sup." His speech was muffled by the table.

"Nice to be working with you again, Mr Pickles!" Wewaschlagen piped up enthusiastically.

"It's ahh… Nice to meet you finally." Ofdensen seconded.

"And… As I was discussing with you, Tengo is here to discuss with you another musical opportunity! I'm sure you remember working with him on Snakes N' Barrels last single release?"

"I was just doing album art last time" Wewaschlagen blurted "but this… This time I-I… I mean I've been working with other bands, Pickles and I know a band who would just die to have you sing for them!" Pickles peeked out from his mass of orange hair. Wewaschlagen was leaning forward on the table intently, his tie appeared to have been tucked into his pants, it was pressing so tightly against his button-up shirt. The other man was leaning back in his chair, hands clasped on the table.

"Yes. Right. And Charles… Ofdensen here is a lawyer. I employed him yesterday. I believe you will have some things to go through with him following that disasterful evening on Saturday?" Genfenko's question went unanswered, but Pickles did pick his head up.

"Look, chief…" Pickles directed his voice at Wewaschlagen.

"I've been having these fecken' meetings fer years now. I always end up just choosin' something' I wanna do. Myself. Y'know? Ye can't pay me enough to do somethin' I don't wanna do." The room was silent.

"I mean, naht to sey I can't give you a chence with yer prahject here… It's just been… A big week, y'know?" Silence. Pickles shook his head and scratched into the hair on the back of his skull, then let his hands fall on the table in front of him, exasperated.

"What about you, Lawyer man, what I do now. Huh?"

The man named Ofdensen cleared his throat.

"Well it's ah, actually going to be quite simple we think Pickles. There was a little… Confrontation between one of your band mates and a pedestrian at the Marriott loft" He paused. "You weren't there of course, we just need a… A statement from you about it."

Pickles whirled his head around to his manager.

"A little confrontation? The fuck is dat supposed to mean? And you – You didn't tell me? You gotta get a lawyer to tell me somethin' like this? What the fuck? You couldn't jest… Jest tell me this yourself, dood? Oh it's gotta be bad." He smacked his head to his palm. The cocaine was making him sweat. Genfenko opened his mouth, but Ofdensen beat him to the punch.

"It isn't that simple, Pickles. I wasn't told the details until – this morning. Ausfentera would have only known about it recently too, or he would have told you sooner, I'm sure."

Fucking useless Manager, the singer thought. What business was it of this laywer's to cover his ass anyway.

"That's exactly right Pickles I didn't know about it until today either." Genfenko replied a little too quickly.

"So what the fuck is it then?" He pulled his hands through his hair.

"Well ah, considering the nature of the situation, I'll need to speak to you alone." The man called Charles pushed his rectangular glasses back on his face with one finger. The redhead smoldered. He shook his head quickly, and then tugged at his hair.

"Well let's do dat den." He glared towards his manager before turning to Wewaschlagen.

"I'm sahrry, dood. You can, ah, go ahead en schedule me an appointment with yer band if it's ganna make you feel better or whatever." Wewaschlagen brightened and nodded, wiggling his fat ass out of the office chair.

"Yes sir, oh I will sir! I promise you're gonna like these guys." He gathered his things clumsily and smiled at Genfenko, who also stood to leave. Pickles pressed his palms into his temples and shut his eyes tightly until he heard the pair's heavy steps fall away.

His head was beginning to hurt a little, but he was calmer. Remembering the minibar in the corner of the room he got up, swinging his arms at his sides. He eyed off Ofdensen as he slouched past him. The older man didn't look up, he was writing something. Pickles curled his lip, turning away to open the fridge. He pulled out a pair of Dos Equis'. He also grabbed a mug and slugged a large spoonful of instant coffee into it. He pressed the plunger on the hot water tap, not bothering to stir it. He took a seat closer to the lawyer, directly across from him on the narrow table. Putting his drinks down he slowly, deliberately placed his arms on the table, resting heavily on his elbows, his hands in fists out in front of him.

Ofdensen continued to write.

The singer stared ahead, studying the lawyer's placid face. The only sound was the scratching of the ball point pen in his hand. Pickles uncapped both of the beers, taking a sip from one, he went to drink from the other, but a single finger extended from the other side of the table, pressing the beer back down onto the polished wood. Pickles looked at it, then up at its owner. Charles stared him in the eye, an unamused expression on his face. Before Pickles could shake his gaze enough to protest, Ofdensen curled his finger into the neck of the bottle, dragging it over to his side of the table, leaning forward as he did so.

"This isn't going to be good news for you. I don't think you're going to take it well. And by the looks of the state you may or may not be in right now, you're going to have a tantrum. And I'm going to need a drink." With that Charles brought the beer to his lips, his eyes still locked onto Pickles'.

"What's your name again?" Pickles let his jaw fall open a little.

"Ofdensen." He pushed his glasses back up his nose. "Charles Ofdensen."

* * *

The inside of the New York cathedral seemed a lot bigger than it looked on the outside. The white walls and small windows didn't seem like they belonged there, either. Toki Wartooth decided they had chosen the location for his examination purely on its intimidation value.

The 20 year old had only been in the glorious US of A for three weeks, struggling through a mountain of visa forms, applications, validations, identification paperwork and other various administration correspondence associated with the leap of faith he'd taken from his native Norway.

But he'd finally made it.

He clutched his beaten up Ashton guitar in his hands, his brow furrowed as he closed the door behind him. He set his worn out backpack down, a lime green affair with a floral pattern, and turned towards the vast whiteness that extended under his feet.

Ahead of him sat a panel of three, there to audition him and nine others for the prestigious music college Toki hoped would save him from having to return home. Making it this far meant he probably didn't have anything to worry about, but the group of ten would be reduced to six following the ordeal.

His footsteps echoed far louder than they should, almost causing his ears to ring. After what seemed like an eternity of walking he made it to the white strip of tape that he was instructed to stand behind. He shuffled his feet, pressing his toes together as he waited for some recognition. Had he come in too soon? Was it really his turn now?

"Name?" a booming voice came from the middle man, without looking up. The sound echoed, and Toki almost fainted.

"T-T…Toki Wartooth, sirs…" His voice was tiny. The man who spoke raised his eyebrow, his beedy eyeball peeking out at him from under it. Toki held his guitar a little higher, as if defending himself with it.

"And what instrument do you play?"

Toki had the fleeting thought that this man should know what he played already, he was staring right at his guitar, after all. This dissolved back into his head as quickly as he had thought it, and instead he tried to translate the simple question.

"I plays.. de… Ele.. Electrics guitars." His arms wobbled, his wrists felt empty, his hands heavy, coated in sweat.

Another long pause.

"What piece are you auditioning with?" the centered man retorted. His voice echoed in the silence that followed.

Toki opened his mouth, trying to find the words he had only minutes ago been rehearsing in the hallway.

"I… Ie…." He cleared his throat.

"Iron Maiden, sir, de songs is called… Is called Runs to de Hills." He blushed a deep red. For one reason or another every institution he had come up against so far seemed to question his choice of music. He hadn't quite the language skills to figure out why this was so, however.

The men before him exchanged glances, there was a soft murmur between them. Toki picked at the neck of his guitar.

"Proceed."

"Okays." He squeaked, more assuring himself than answering his judges. He stiffly moved to the amp that had been placed to the left of him. He turned it on before jacking his guitar into it, the resulting sound boom made the panel jump in their seats. Toki winced. He strummed his guitar once while still kneeling, confirming that it was in tune.

He slowly turned to face them again. This was it.

"Uhm.. Cans.. I .. Hhhyaves.. Just a – a monment, please?"

He didn't wait for them to answer, and promptly turned on his heel. Facing away from them he closed his eyes and took a long breath. He could save himself from a bad impression. He didn't have to be afraid. It only took a few seconds for him to calm his mind. He bounced back on his heels, once, twice, and on the third time his fingers came to life.


	3. Takin' Care of Business

The once magnificent stained-glass windows of the cathedral were now indeterminable shards of colored glass spread on the wood underneath the windowsill. Crystals that once hung from the central chandelier scattered away from where they impacted in chunks and splinters. The remaining lighting fixtures hung by electrical wires from the high ceiling, some simply crumpled into a twisted shiny metal disaster on the floor. The few objects in the wide white room that had not been fixed to the ground had been thrown against the walls.

The explosion of prismatic sound from the young musician's guitar seemed to slice through the laws of physics as it had burst from the amplifier next to him.

The chaos halted as quickly as it had started when Toki Wartooths fingers stopped still.

The ties of all three judges had flapped over their shoulders the moment the young Norwegian had started playing. 2 of them lost their clipboards, one catching theirs square in the face, his bottom lip now swollen to a fat fleshy blood blister.

The water jug and glasses before them had been long since swept behind them, breaking into pieces. The unluckiest of the three had caught his in the forehead. Glass stuck out from his cheek, blood dripping down onto his wet button-up shirt.

Pieces of the chandelier behind the guitarist dangled precariously before dropping to the floor, the rain-like shattering noise was the only thing to break the silence once he had set down his guitar.

The three men before him didn't appear to be angry, they didn't look disappointed or upset, so Toki could only conclude that he had done well for himself. He smiled hopefully as the man in the middle stood up to address him.

"Get out of here."

With a shaky hand he brought his fingers to his face and removed his glasses, both of the lenses had popped out. Toki didn't move, still translating in his head.

"NOW!"

His voice boomed across the expansive room, causing the flighty Norwegian to jump.

"Ahh, thanks yous for listenings to me! Thanks you!"

The brunette grabbed up his belongings and returned to the door from whence he came, his boots crackling on the broken particles.

His guitar case sat just outside the door where he had left it. It was a sad brown thing which almost bent in half in the middle. It was secondhand and stained, a discolored white blur obscured the Norwegian brand name on the side of it where someone had once spray painted "Lite Skjøge". Toki had scrubbed it off himself, leaving the fabric worn, still smelling of propellant.

The stitching was frayed around the strap so badly that Toki had started carrying it around in his arms instead. Since coming to America he'd added a plastic green tag to the case, on which his name was written painstakingly in his childish hand writing.

He sniffled, zipping the case up around the navy blue Ashton, and turned around to the sign in sheet on the rickety table outside the examiners door. He wrote his name in and signed next to it, confirming he'd attended and completed his final performance exam.

His stomach was a little wobbly. When he first glimpsed American soil from the plane he flew in on, he decided it didn't matter if he didn't get into the school, he wasn't going to go home. He would run away. The idea made him a little ill. If he wasn't accepted then he was sure he'd be disowned by his parents, who already thought very little of him.

He initially thought the panel were impressed, their mouths were wide open after the first stanza of the Iron Maiden classic, he thought they looked happier, like there was a glimmer of something living behind their tired appearance.

He spoke better English than he understood when he was nervous, and so he only understood that he was to leave when the adjudicator's fat sausage finger pointed at the door.

Being asked to leave in such a way couldn't possibly be a good thing, though he remained positive that perhaps it was just an American custom to be so vicious.

The late January chill caught him as he pushed the heavy cathedral doors open, the wind blowing his scarf and hair back behind him. Toki pressed his guitar to his chest and made his way down the huge stone stairs, eager to return to the dorm room he had been provided, knowing full well that it might be the last night he would ever spend there.

* * *

Nathan hadn't seen Skwisgaar for three days. Considering the circumstances, this worried him considerably.

He'd call the reception of his hotel each morning to see if his room was still being paid for, a sign that the guitarist was at least still alive, and once confirmed, he would spend the day in bed. He missed Florida already. The extended holiday he had taken worried his mother, who called to express her concern daily.

Occasionally he would slip down to the bar, a baseball cap drawn down hard over his face, and sip a rum and coke in front of the bar television. This was one such instance.

He rested his head on his hand, swirling the ice in the glass in front of him with his finger.

The hotel was fairly upmarket, the fixtures and handles were frequently polished of fingerprints and sticky child residue, the electronics in the place all appeared to be brand new, the carpets cleaned daily, and the bar itself had a glass countertop, lit underneath by blue LEDs.

The barstools were similarly lit, the cushions made from plastic coated gel, capturing the light under the asses of various patrons. He exhaled, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. He wasn't used to such a sterile environment, and he didn't like it. It lacked authenticity to him, he liked his living areas to be lived in, and as such he hadn't allowed the maid to clean his room since he'd taken up residency in it.

All in all the environment made him depressed. He resolved that that evening would definitely be the time to call Skwisgaar. He'd been politely avoiding making contact with the blonde, the last thing he wanted to do was make it seem as though he _wanted_ to be involved in the Scandinavian's next endeavor.

"Dodgers game, aye?" Nathan heard a tinkle of glass and ice beside him, the scraping of a barstool as the occupant pulled it closer to him. He'd lost his train of thought.

He focused on the TV screen to confirm that indeed the home team were playing, though he hadn't paid any attention in the last hour to even register this information. He blinked and stared down into his watery drink.

"I actually uuuh… Actually wasn't watching that" he turned to look at his new barmate.

"Do I… Know you?" He squinted.

"Oh you couldn't possibly have forgotten this face so quickly, could you Nathan?" Magnus' face cracked into a wide smile, the rubbery dimples in his face made him look significantly aged. His eyes were cold. Nathan just stared, so his slender acquaintance raised his hand for the bartender.

"Jack and coke please. And you, Nathan?" The larger man was still staring, but he managed to mumble out a reply.

"Make that two." Magnus turned his attention back to the black-haired singer, wry smile still projected onto his face.

"Look at you, with your long hair. Finally longer than mine, huh?" He began to chuckle, but Nathan sliced through it.

"How did you find me." It was a statement more than a question. His voice was flat now, annoyed, not threatened. After the initial shock of seeing his high school friend in the flesh had worn off, Nathan could only find distain for the guy.

"Come now Nathan, it isn't hard to track anyone down in my line of work, as long as they have a criminal record" He laughed, Nathan fumed.

The bartender set down their drinks. Magnus was still happily draining his first. He looked awfully pleased with himself. Nathan could only guess as to why the guitarist was there, but he could assume it had something to do with his own face being plastered all over the news.

"I just happened to be in the city for work, I thought I'd see what you were doing these days and hey, you were just around the corner!"

Silence. The Dodger's scored.

"So, hey, maybe I'm just taking crazy pills here, but are you currently _recording_ with Skwisgaar Skwigelf?" Magnus chuckled. Nathan's brow furrowed a little more.

"Absurd, I know, I know-but, I thought I saw you on TV the other night!"

"Can't you just ask me how I am first?" Nathan snapped, turning away so he faced the bar in front of him, staring at his reflection in the mirrored surface behind the bottom-shelf liquors. He took a sip of his new drink.

"Well that comes hand in hand, doesn't it? I mean, what could possibly be more exciting for_ you_ than this?"

Nathan tightened his jaw. This was just why he could barely stand his old friend. He gripped the drink in front of him, his finger pads turning white as they pressed hard against the glass.

He'd broken many a glass in that way. His mother had always taught him it was impolite to outright punch people who deserved it, and Nathan wasn't usually one to disappoint his mother. He released his fingers, watching the pink trickle back into them slowly. He took a deep breath.

"Isn't that right Nathan?" Magnus slapped his shoulder, he was reiterating whatever point Nathan supposed he should have been paying attention to.

"Uhh… Yeah, sure. Look, Magnus. Did you wanna meet him? Is that what this is all about?"

The corner of the brunette's mouth twitched, but he maintained his smile.

"What a nice offer, Nathan. That is very kind of you, I _am_ a big fan. I know his first language isn't English, but I'd love to ask him how he happened upon you. I didn't think his career was going downhill!"

Magnus shouldered him, Nathan clenched his teeth. At least it would give him an excuse to call the Swede.

"I'll see what I can do."

* * *

Charles Ofdensen had dealt with his share of rockstars. In fact, considering how long he'd been in the business, he found it curious that he hadn't dealt with the Snakes N' Barrels singer before.

Pickles had taken the news surprisingly well. Not wanting to prove the lawyer right, he had refrained from flipping out. Instead he took his emotions out on the remainder of the six pack from the minibar.

Snizzy Snazz had overdosed. This wasn't especially unusual for the guitarist, but he'd yet to wake up from his coma. Blame was being tossed around between Candynose and Tony, but Pickles had left the trio long before Snizzy Snaz had taken the ridiculous dosage, so all Ofdensen required of him was a statement regarding the incident. If Bullets died, there would be an investigation. This was the real bad news for the front man.

His advice for the redhead was to get himself involved in another project as soon as possible. There was usually one musician who escaped the fiery wreckage of a broken up band, and on more than one occasion Charles Ofdensen was behind their success.

His business prowess had not gone unnoticed either, though he avoided being pushed into the spotlight, increasingly having to decline to be interviewed for various Rock n' Roll publications, he'd been given a bigger office, more resources, and a bigger paycheck.

Though only 3 years out of graduate school, the lawyer was debit free, with everything a normal man could dream of. Charles however, was not a normal man. He didn't measure his success in his possessions, he got his gratification from wrangling more and more difficult contracts. Such a measure made it impossible for him to be sated, this, he had decided, was both a blessing and a curse.

The lights on his Mercedes-Benz W220 flashed from across the car park as he swiftly made his way toward it. Once he was speeding away from the studio he made a mental checklist. That morning he had drawn up and completed the documents necessary for Skwisgaar Skwigelf's separation from Fuckface Academy, the drummer and bassist had caused a somewhat violent fuss, the more sensitive singer had jumped straight through the high rise office window.

A few short years ago, this kind of incident would have rattled him, but such occurrences were becoming more and more common as his interests drifted closer to the darker side of the music industry.

He would usually schedule upwards of four meetings in one typical work day, but the lucrative proposal Skwigelf had offered him meant that that day he had no time for anything after his meeting with the Snakes n' Barrels resident red head.

"Draws up de, contkracts, fors de band. It ams going to be a big one."

The Swede's words echoed in his head as he punched the accelerator in, shooting up the ramp of the 10 highway.

He'd been contracted as a lawyer for Skwisgaar for some years now, mostly legal and accounting advice. He'd had to wipe his calander for a straight week when the two had first met, Skwisgaar already had a name for himself in his homeland, but his poor grasp of the English language meant that in coming to America his tax accounts were in ruins, and the blonde ended up owing more than a year of back pay, which Charles was able to pay back without drawing directly from the Singer's spending money.

The car park underneath the impressive Crystal Mountains Records building was beginning to clear out for the end of the day, but for Charles it was like returning home for the night.

He spent more nights in his cushy leather chair than he did at his apartment. His office was equipped with closet, refrigerator, television (in case he wanted to catch the news), and all the office accessories a bureaucrat could ever need. He also had access to the impressive executive bathroom, equipped with both shower and sauna, should the mood ever strike him.

All in all he acted as the engine in the center of many projects, and that's the way he liked it.

He locked his car and set his briefcase on the ground to straighten his tie, the red silk cool on his well worked fingers. He checked his watch, ran his hands through his chestnut hair, and headed for the elevator. It was going to be a long night.


	4. Come Together

Okay so drunken update here, fuck, fanfiction is harder than I remembered. Next update in 3/4 days. Got shit to do.

* * *

The Metropolitan Detention Center in central Brooklyn was not a nice place to be for certain social groups, the least of which seemed to be small-statured white males. This is why it was so astonishing to the authorities that William Murderface was so damn popular amongst their inmates.

The bevested criminal had long since been known to the institution, he had been in and out over a four year period, without a single conviction.

The knife-enthusiast had even been caught red handed smuggling illicit items into the building, but the witnessing staff member had been found dead the next day, a flick knife lodged into the base of his skull.

Another man confessed to the crime, already being held for a life sentence.

He was on his way out this time, and everyone in admin knew it. You could hear his erratic lisping from anywhere on the same floor as long as there wasn't a bolted door in the way.

William had already exchanged his prison jumpsuit for the clothes he came in with. He'd parted his freshly washed fluffy brown hair to the side in a sarcastic nod towards the promise he'd made for good behavior. A single guard marched him to the pedestrian end of the facility and punched in the last code separating Murderface from the streets.

"Thanksh Jerry! Y'know itch alwaysh good to catch up, I'm glad we had thich little talk."

He flashed a gap-toothed grin over his shoulder.

Jerry, who'd not been paying attention to the ramblings of his captive psychopath, fumbled with the novel key ring clipped to his belt, searching for the little key responsible for William's release.

"Oh, hey, I got that for ya."

Jerry watched, dumbfounded as his ward jerked his hips side to side, wobbling up and down as if performing some loony dance, the result of which manifested when he pulled his hands to his sides, the handcuffs that restrained him now dangling precariously from his little finger.

Jerry made a grab for them, but the larger man was too quick for him and the device clacked on the stone floor.

"I'll jucht… Let my schelf out."

Murderface caught the door before it could swing closed and waltzed through it, making a beeline for the reception desk. The lady on duty, a stout woman recently transferred from upstate, could hardly know what was coming.

Her fingers ceased their tapping when William's shadow cast over her.

"Hello, ladeeeey"

He tweaked his mustache, leaning heavily on the counter. Jerry haphazardly tried to re-open the door, fingers fumbling in a panic.

"Two four, schix oh one!" He rapped his fingers, the bespectacled woman peered up at him over her monitor.

"Are you… A prisoner?"

"Yesch. Yesch I am. I believe it'sch my time to be – schkedaddling from thisch fine eschtablicshment."

Big words were not his forte; he patted down one side of his frizzy hair in a greasy gesture of gentile wholesomeness.

"Tha-"

"Yesch, that'sch my prischoner… numerical… value."

She tapped, her brow furrowing. Murderface leant forward in a whisper.

"That'sh a scheriouschly big number." He winked, her nose wrinkled.

Jerry burst in at that moment, composing himself before striding towards the pair.

"Alright, Mr … Murderface." Her eyebrow raised.

"Do you have your release forms?"

"Why yesch I do."

He stuck his foot out to the side, catching Jerry's boot under it. The guard flailed, falling forward in a slapstick pile. The papers he'd been holding were expertly plucked by the criminal as he fell, and he promptly presented them to the wary receptionist.

She took them cautiously, naturally avoiding sudden movements. Finding the number she needed, she whetted a rubber stamp with ink and pressed it to the document before holding it out to him.

"You ought to be more careful." She gave him a fleeting, nervous smile.

"Being linked to so many crime scenes, you must run with a bad crowd!"

"Yeah! My friendsch are pretty schitty." He rolled his eyes, taking the receipt and it's copy from her, slapping the first copy into the chest of the recently righted officer behind him, who wheezed from the force of the hit, his hat knocked askew.

"Mary," Jerry started, waddling up beside the inmate, clutching his stomach.

"He's supposed to have parole, before you-"

"Ah ah ah! It'sch too late for that, Jer Bear! Sche already schtamped it, look, schee it's in your handsch!" William taunted, snatching the re-enforced plastic bag Mary was offering to him, making her jump back in her seat.

Jerry looked down, the black ink that stood out from the page confirmed that indeed, it was too late. Murderface was tearing into the bag containing his belongings joyously.

"Boy it was schure schwell meeting _you_ today! Thanksch you for your effischient work! It was most... appenjchshiated." He doffed an invisible hat, turning on his heel, leaving the two social workers awestruck.

The lady-warden peeped "Is that… His real last name?" The front doors swung shut.

Murderface sang to himself as he made his way down the stairs. He carried his belongings, still wrapped in plastic, under one arm. His other arm swung jovially at his side, feet kicking out ahead of himself with every step. People on the street looked his way as his off-key voice radiated out lines of _The Offspring_'s _Gotta Get Away_.

He paused at the bottom of the stairs and dropped his belongings into the palm on his hand, his feet spread as he strummed on an invisible instrument, singing out the bass line in 'Doo's and 'wowow's.

He chuckled as he finished up his invisible solo, turning over the package in his hands.

He extracted from it a set of keys, roughly shoving them into his pocket. This was followed by a metal cigar tube, a beaten up leather wallet (containing three 10's and 17 singles), a various assortment of change, a second set of keys (this one complete with bottle opener) and three pocket knives (for shirt pocket, belt, and sock, respectively).

The gasoline canister he'd had on him when he was arrested had not been returned to him.

He tossed the empty bag onto the street and continued down the sidewalk.

* * *

On the surface, the high rise apartment didn't look much more lived in than when it was purchased. Everything in it was arranged so carefully and cleaned so often that you could hardly tell who it belonged to without a close inspection. Los Angeles stretched for miles on either side, and Skwisgaar could see all if it, if he so chose.

There was no risk of being seen, the building grew much higher than any others in the area, and he occupied the entire top floor.

The bottom level was occupied by a coffee shop, the residents in a few floors above it were proud of this fact. None of the apartments came cheap, and though ownership included wifi to residents, many preferred to sit in the shop below, doing business on their laptops, coffee in hand.

The elevator ran all the way to the roof, but the top few floors went unlisted. They belonged to an eclectic elite. Keyed entry ensured that their floors were only accessible to them, the elevator acting as their front door.

Skwisgaar absentmindedly twirled a golden lock of hair between his fingers. Beginning to grow tired of staring at the ceiling above his king sized bed, he craned his neck to peer down at the mass of black hair spread out across his stomach.

The women he'd chosen to entertain in the afternoon just weren't doing it for him. He shifted his eyes back to the ceiling and gently pulled the girl between his legs up by her ebony hair. He could feel her making sexy eyes at him. If he were any other man he would have deflated into uselessness long ago, so distracted was his mind.

Without looking his partner in the eye he lazily coaxed her to straddle his hips. She was still enthusiastic, but the jerkiness of her actions upset his stomach.

The redhead, who he had finished with over an hour ago was sitting on the side of the bed, awkwardly watching her friend drag the rockstar through the motions of what was supposed to be her unforgettable Hollywood experience.

Skwisgaar glanced sideways. His Explorer sat beside the bathroom door. He pouted a little. He was entirely too masculine to ever admit there was something he'd rather be doing than having sex with a groupie, but he was dangerously close to admitting it to himself.

As if the universe sensed his thoughts, the phone on his bedside table started to ring. The blonde propped himself up on his elbows, swatting his partner's hands off of his chest. She was light enough that he was able to pull himself closer to the phone. She was still writhing on his hips.

"Heys, what."

"Hey, Skwisgaar. It's Nathan." His friend growled.

"Nathans!" He brightened, sitting completely upright; he cupped his hand to the girl's mouth to stifle her cartoony moans.

"Hey. Uhhh… I haven't – haven't seen you in a while and I was like hey… Where's Skwisgaar, y'know – so I called you right now to see if maybe – maybe hey – we could hang out tonight. I got a friend in from out of to-"

"Nathan. I ams with de ladies right now." He slid his hand to the side of the girls head and roughly pushed her sideways. She yelped, falling headfirst off the side of the bed.

"Oh uuh… I'm sory to interrupt there I-"

"No, nos, it does not matters now, you will haves to makes it ups to me," His flippancy was not lost on the girls, who scowled over their shoulders.

"I'll sends yous a car and you can comes over and we cans – we cans works on that."

"Work on wha-" he hung up.

Not really minding if the girls bought his excuse or not, Skwisgaar pulled on his underwear and urged the girls to do the same. Before they were even dressed he ushered them into the elevator.

He doubled back through the living room and almost tripped on a discarded pair of heels (the girl who'd left them there would go on to tell her friends the guitarist had liked her shoes so much he'd kept them for himself). He picked up the received of the living room phone and awaited the building's operator.

"Ja, Hellos? It is.. It ams apartments two sixteens. Ja. Okay." He held the phone, picking up a forgotten drink from a couple of hours earlier. He swigged it, swallowing quickly to answer the new voice.

"Hellos? Yes. I need a cabs. Ja, Ja. No, it's comingks here. So, destination, this buildingks, from…" He squinted, trying to remember the address.

"It's am, one… Ssree zero two.. Abbots Kinney. In Venice." He impatiently confirmed the location and hung up.

Skwisgaar didn't enjoy his downtime. Between practicing guitar, playing gigs, going to interviews, meetings and conferences, dinners, receptions and parties he hadn't had more than a few minutes to himself for the better part of a year. Ten minutes here and there was always occupied by practicing scales, but he wasn't feeling it at that moment.

Instead he unlocked the balcony door, stepping out into the crisp air. Winter was over now, but the Californian nights that time of year were still frigid. Still only in his underwear, he refused to acknowledge the temperature. Instead he lit a cigarette.

So far beneath him the sirens were but a whisper. His patio extended impossibly far beyond the roof of the building to accommodate his needs. A disused, but expensive barbeque area extended to the left of the door, lit by solar panel lights.

His usual spot was a chair to the right, the table in front of it sporting a mini fountain, which acted as the table's base. It was the opposite of functional. Water spilled out over the edges of the glass and landed in the grooves below, recycling it back into the mechanism.

Despite this luxury, he was constantly discontent in his quiet times. Smoking was enough of an excuse to stand still for a couple of minutes, but it hurt his head to think too much.

The girls he'd brought home were a pedestrian ten out of ten. A regular jackoff couldn't ask for any more, but Skwisgaar had been privileged long enough to wear his interest of them thin.

He blew smoke, attempting to coax it into rings, but the billow of his efforts fell short. To be trufthful, the guitarist was not particularly accomplished outside of his instrument. He learnt quickly enough in his native country to make out as though he knew what he was doing in every area, and this illusion held strong as fast until he was left with his own thoughts.

Scowling, he took another drag, his cigarette half gone, before the PA system connected to the outside area tolled, announcing the arrival of his guest.

Not wanting to waste the tobacco, he pressed his face against the glass, knowing Nathan would appear from the hallway at any moment. Once the singer rounded the corner he tapped the glass, and he picked up the sound instantly.

He had not expected anyone else to follow his friend, and he faltered for a second when he noticed the taller man behind him. The sliding door slid open.

"Hey. Sup." Nathan moved to the blonde and patted his shoulder in greeting.

Skwisgaar was still fixed on the intruder.

"This is uhh.. Magnus. I was gonna tell you on the phone but you hung up on me."

"Right, hello, Mr Skwigelf." Magnus moved to shake his hand, Skwisgaar looked down at it, and then back at his face.

"It's great to finally meet you."

"Ja." There was a long pause.

"You mentioned dat, this guys was comingks with yous?" He turned his attention to Nathan, who scratched at his fringe.

"Yeah, I was gonna say, yeah. He's uhh… A friend of mine, from high school, actually." Nathan turned his head to his friend, who cracked a smile at the guitarist.

"Ja, okays, what's up?" He turned to sit back in his chair, offering the remaining chairs to his guests.

"Well, Skwisgaar, I ran into Nathan and he offered me to meet his friends, and here we are! Wow." Nathan shot him a look, but Magnus was focused on Skwisgaar.

"Ja, alrights." Another pause.

"Woulds you likes… A cigarette?" Skwisgaar offered his pack to the duo. Nathan reached forward.

"No, I don't smoke" Magnus chuckled, Nathan took one, fumbling for his lighter. The silence could have been cut with a knife.

"I'm actually a guitarist too, I've heard a lot about you."

"Oh ja?" Skwisgaar glanced towards the lights of the city, stretching past the distance of his vast patio.

"Yeah! I actually thought that maybe, since you guys have become so popular, you could use, a bassist?"

The blonde chuckled, exhaling a cloud.

"Oh hoh… We don'ts needs a bassist. We don'ts reallys plays with a, de live bands you knows? So I just records all of de parts myself."

Magnus was quick on his reasoning.

"Yes. Yes of course. But, maybe another voice would help to.. Enhance your sound? I'm actually a lead guitarist, really." Nathan's jaw tightened, Skwisgaar raised an eyebrow. Sensing the tension, Magnus continued.

"Well, I mean, I can play rhythm guitar, of course. Maybe you could hear me play, see what you think?"

"Ja, sure, I haves five minutes."

Nathan bit his lip watching his friends. Magnus didn't need his support, or his disapproval. Reflecting on how the man even got there he realized it may have been a mistake. He could negotiate better than anyone the singer had ever met, and if his guitar skill had improved since high school, it was possible Skwisgaar might have a use for him.

The guitarist finished his cigarette and ushered the brunette inside. Nathan wasn't done with his, so he walked across the expansive space to the rail of the balcony.

The pair headed inside, leaving him alone with his durrie.

He heard the buzz of an amp starting up, so he hunched his shoulders, crossing his arms on the railing. Magnus struck up a solo and he instantly knew he was lost. It went without saying that Skwisgaar had an interest in good guitarists, and from the sound of it, Magnus knew what he was doing.

Exhaling for a final time he finished his cigarette over the bar, watching the dim red glimmer fall before it snuffed out in the wind.

Skwisgaar took up his guitar in time with his guest, tapping his foot in time to the brunette's improvised beat. They started playing together at Nathan moved inside to join his companions.

It sounded good. It sounded really fucking good. Despite his resentment Nathan found himself nodding his head as the duo tapped up and down a melodic minor scale.

"Hey that sounds pretty good." He exhaled his last lungful of smoke into the room, Magnus wrinkled his nose in distaste.

"So are we going out tonight or what." He tried to turn the conversation.

"Nathans! Why didn'tst you yells me you are havingks a friend who cans plays the guitars before!" Skwisgaar grinned at his new pal, who shot a smile back at him. Nathan felt sick.

"Well, yeah I mean, yeah he can play… Play guitar… But maybe you guys wanna go out and see a show or something, I dunno." He stared at his shoes.

"I thinks maybe we stays here and, see who ams de best at… Playing de various, guitars solos" Nathan pressed his teeth together, grasping at straws.

"Look, Skwisgaar. You have plenty of time to talk bullshit." Both gutarists looked up at him.

"But I wanna go, and drink some beers. And pick up some ladies." Magnus looked to Skwisgaar, who pursed his lips.

"Okays, Nathans, okay. We's go." He looked towards the brunette.

"For an hours or two."

Magnus smirked.

"Okay, good." Nathan turned on his heel and picked up his wallet, pressing the button for the ground floor on the elevator keypad.


	5. I'll Take Whatever You're Giving

**So, just so you guys know, I'm uploading based on where my word count is at and based on how much I feel like writing. Implementing suggested matches, but subject to change if anyone else speaks up ;)**

* * *

Drunk, again. Not unusual for the redhead. This major difference this time was that he was at a bar. The car he'd parked outside was brand new, as was the clothes he sported. Spending money didn't quell his anger, but it had helped him to control it that afternoon.

He'd gotten a call from the bank confirming his purchases. Pickles could only guess it had been the nature of his acquisitions, and not the amount. Most of his shopping usually occurred in casinos, strip clubs and bars. This time it wasn't enough.

Bullets had overdosed alright, it wasn't the first time he'd shot Heroin into his balls, the first time had been funny, Pickles had even been the one to administer it, but it was only a matter of time before such a ridiculous measure would ensure some kind of accident.

Pickles had been back in his apartment in the Valley, undressed and messed up. He'd considered following his band mate, eyeing towards a ready syringe before he'd received a call from the hospital. He'd woken up from his coma. There were some complications, but he was alive, and probably on the way to a decent recovery. So the front man had taken his wallet for a spin.

The lawyer, Ofdensen, had called him minutes later, confirming what the hospital had told him, as if he'd needed it. The softness in his voice had been surprisingly comforting.

He took another swig of his rum and coke, reflecting on his meeting. Once Charles had delivered the news in the studio he'd had to suppress his rage. It wasn't like him to do so at all, but something about the Lawyer commanded respect from him. Steely green eyes stayed fixed on him as his knuckles turned white against the table. He'd looked down, taken a breath, and murmured something he shouldn't have.

_He was prahbably jealous._

_Ah, jealous, you say?_

…

_This could be important, Pickles. I'm your lawyer, I can't ah - say anything to anyone about what you decide to tell me here._

_Me. Me and Sammy._

He shook his head. He wouldn't have said anything if it wasn't for the drugs he'd taken. But the pressure in his chest commanded that he let off steam, one way or another. He probably didn't have any obligation to Ofdensen, but there's no way he was letting him disappear knowing what he knew.

He shook his head, glancing up at the tv. The bar was pretty packed, some DJ was playing by the dance floor, and he could smell the sweat from a hundred regular jackoffs from where he sat. Dance music wasn't his thing, Pickles was a music snob, though he'd never admit his liking for ambiance, rock, metal and punk were his staples.

He cupped his hands over his ears and stared down into his drink. The glass span before his eyes. Intoxication confirmed, he reached forward, grasping the straw with his lips, so he could sip down the dregs.

A rush of cold air hit him as the door opened, three men stepped inside. He noticed a European accent and squeezed his eyes shut. He'd had a waiting job in high school, and developed a bad taste for Scandinavians since then. They never tipped, they were demanding. Luckily, he knew they were also suckers for shitty music, so he expected them to continue straight to the dance floor, or maybe the bar out the back, in the smokers area.

He muttered under his breath as they took the remaining two seats beside him. He glanced their way and immediately choked. Sitting right next to him was a familiar face. Not someone he knew personally, but he knew more about the blonde than he cared to.

He didn't recognize either of the men who came in with him. A dark haired man took the seat beside him, the larger man left standing had his hands in his pocket, obviously some kind of third wheel.

He snickered, imagining that Skwisgaar was on a date, a jaded lover accidentally tagging along. He probably would be gay though, despite his greasy, 'hardcore' appearance, Skwigelf was definitely a pretty boy.

He doubted anyone else noticed the rock star. His hair was back, he was obviously out of character. Pickles knew all the tricks, he was employing them himself. The next thought that followed made him realize that he might be as recognizable as the Swede, so he slid his hand to his cheek, pushing his elbow out to face away from them.

Bad timing. The blonde turned to him and squinted, they locked eyes, just as an earthquake hit the area.

The drinks the bartender was juggling for the trio spilled into the air as he lost control of them, one smashing on the floor behind the bar, the other two lurched forward, one landing in the Swede's lap, and the third hit Pickles square in the face.

The force wasn't enough to break the glass, but the redhead gritted his teeth as the tumbler impacted. The liquid spilled up and all over his hair, perhaps more of a blessing than a curse. In the chaos he quickly pulled his sopping locks back into a ponytail, the moisture helped to soften the eyeliner he was wearing, and he wiped it away with his thumb. A less recognizable Pickles gripped the bar, the quake still shaking.

Squeals went off around the building, a few girls lost their footing, to the glee of on looking male patrons. The music stopped only momentarily as the power flickered on and off, and then it was over.

Earthquakes were common in the area, but this one was admittedly quite strong. He decided to get the fuck out of there, but he didn't get a change to budge before Skwisgaar's boyfriend put a hand on his shoulder.

"Oh, hey, guy, I'm so sorry. Can't help nature you know."

Pickles peeped out between his fingers and lowered his hand. The brunettes eyes widened.

"Hey, you-"

"Yeah man, it's fine." Pickles held his gaze, hoping to god the other man could read his mind. He blinked, and then smiled softly.

"You… You're lucky the glass didn't break." Magnus relaxed his hand and slowly leant back, just as the Swede filled the space.

"Oh, gods. I'll buy you a new drinks." His eyes told ignorance, and Pickles relaxed a little, meeting Magnus' eyes before addressing the guitarist.

"Oh, naw man, it's fhine, I was planning to get oudda here anyway." Again he prepared to move, but Magnus clapped his hand back on his shoulder.

"No, no I ordered those drinks. I'll buy you one."

"I was finished with mine anyway." Pickles scowled a little, wary.

"Then hey, a free drink with no losses, I _insist._" His inflection was subtle, but Pickles caught it. He relaxed.

"Yeh, alright."

The rest of the bar slowly got their shit together, the staff were naturally upset, there was enough broken glass on the dance floor for them to clear it out. The DJ notched down a few levels, hard dance turning into house music. At least it was more Pickles' style. He dabbed his face with his wet shirt. It was already tight. He tried to ignore the clingy fabric, betraying his bony physique. He shuffled his chair closer to the bar and stared forward.

The bartender who had dropped the drinks was now talking to Magnus, another behind him was sweeping up.

Skwisgaar appeared as though he was trying to find something to say, so Pickles put him out of his misery.

"Skwisgaar Skwigelf, yeah?" The blonde appeared surprised, and a little unsettled.

"Oh, ja, ja… I didn'ts thinks anyone woulds recognize me." Again he looked as though he was searching for words.

"Don' worry man, I ain't gonna say nothin'. Musicians are people too. Relax." Almost instantly the blonde's shoulders relaxed, he smiled at the front man.

"Oh, okays, goods. You knows, it cans be, nice, to be meetings people who doesn't care abouts that crap." He chuckled, and the bartender sat down three drinks and three shots, leaning over to hand a 4th set to the black haired man behind Magnus.

"I thought maybe you'd do a shot with us, man. It's Absinthe, the real stuff. $15 shot." Magnus appeared proud of his affluence. Pickles could see Skwisgaar pick up on this too. The corner of his mouth twitched in a knowing smile.

"Yeh, sure, any free drink is a good drink, am I right?" He smiled at Skwisgaar, who instantly brightened. Magnus took it in stride and nodded, his arm nudging his standing friend forward.

"Here's to ah…" The guitarist turned his eyes up, searching for English words.

"To… Happy accidents." Magnus smirked, winking at Pickles.

"Ja, cheers." The foursome toasted, taking the shot glasses to their lips.

Four hands hit the bar. It was only a moment before Magnus spoke again.

"I'm Magnus, this is my buddy Nathan." He gestured to the biggest of the trio, who nodded.

"And this… This is S-"

"Skwisgaar Skwigelf. As if I couldn't pahssibly know." Pickles tilted his head with a friendly smirk, and Magnus returned it.

"Of course. I told you you couldn't escape here, dude." Magnus nudged the Scandinavian, who chuckled heartily.

To save the impending silence, Nathan shuffled forward.

"I'm… Nathan." He swayed a little. Pickles raised his eyebrows.

"Yeah, yeah man, I… I caught dat." He decided to continue, keeping the silence at bay.

"How do you both know Skwisgaar Skwigelf? Are 'dese guys yer groupies, man?" His comment was received well, Skwisgaar gave him a shit eating grin.

"Oh hoh, ja, these are my ladies of de nights." He laughed, Magnus leaned forward.

"Well I don't know if you have seen the news, man. Nathan here is singing with Skwis in a new project, right buddy?" He looked up. Nathan furrowed his brow and nodded.

"Oh, ah… Dat's.. Dat's great!" He turned to Skwisgaar.

"I didn't like daht punk rock stuff you were doin' anyway, dood." They clinked glasses, Pickles was laughing now, too.

"Oh, ja me too, I ams sick of not playings, in de bands what is, what cans be worthy of my skills, you know?"

"Oh yeah.. Yeah I get you there…" Pickles darted his eyes to Magnus, then back to the blonde.

"So, what do you do then, dood?" He directed at Magnus.

"Ahh I'm just an old friend of Nathans, but I'm a lead guitarist too." He shifted his chair closer. Pickles noticed the look on Skwisgaar's face at this comment, and he outlined an escape route in his head.

"Oh, I see. Yeah, cool! I ah.." He fumbled in his pockets, grasping a soggy cigarette pack. He cursed inwardly.

"I'm goin' out for a smoke, but it was nice to meet you guys!" He stood.

"You do a good jahb, Skwisgaar, I'm lookin' fahward to whatever you come up with next." He gave the singer a nod, then Magnus. As he brushed past Nathan the singer spoke up.

"I needa cigarette too, guys. I'll be back in a minute." The look on Skwisgaar's face gave away that he didn't want to be left alone with the brunette, but he was too polite to leave him alone at the bar. He waved solemnly and the pair strolled away.

* * *

Together they crunched over the glass on the dance floor. The patrons had moved to the sides, still dancing and laughing, though the majority had split between the front bar and the patio, outside was more packed than usual.

Pickles stopped at the door and turned to Nathan.

"Hey, dood. My fags ah- got wet back 'dere. Can I bum a smoke?"

Nathan was more than happy.

"Yeah, yeah here you go." His stubby fingers fiddled with the pack, fishing out the last pair he had.

"Oh, ah, this is my last few. I-"

"Oh man, don't worry about it, I'll buy ye a new pack. There's a 7/11 on the corner of dis blahck." Pickles grinned, much more relaxed now.

"Yeah, alright. I ain't gonna say no to more free shit." Nathan laughed.

"Spose yer getting' used to it with dat pair back 'dere, huh?"

"Yeah." He growled, looking down at the cigarettes.

"This one's my lucky one. You might as well have it… I got lucky enough this week." He extended his hand roughly. Pickles studied his expression. The ebony haired man's eyes were fixed on the smokes, but his jaw was tight, not quite broody, but uncomfortable.

"Yeah, sure. I could use some luck right now." His smile was genuine this time, and he gently took the cigarette from his new friend. He flicked his eyes back up, Nathans stared back.

After a moment a couple pushed between them, and Pickles realized they were blocking the door way. Grateful for the tension breaker, he placed the cigarette between his lips and tilted his head, motioning for the singer to follow him.

The pair made their way down the ramp, finding a space by the wall, unoccupied enough for them to carry on a conversation easily.

The redhead's lighter was rendered useless by the alcohol, so Nathan extended his lighter sharply under his nose, so the front man inhaled against it. Once they were both lit Pickles shoved a hand into his pocket. The night was characteristically cold, but he was drunk enough not to notice. Nathan eyed his wet shirt, his lips pursed.

"So, Skwigelf, huh?" He tapped the ash from his smoke.

"Yeah." Nathan stared at his shoes.

"How did 'dat come about?"

* * *

Back at the bar Skwisgaar was trying his patience. He'd already finished his free drink, and had ordered another two for himself. He was halfway through the second. Magnus appeared to him as a promising musician, but his attitude was already getting on his nerves.

At first, the guitarist had been a little pandering, which he liked, but he wasn't used to being patronized. His poor grasp of English didn't make him an idiot, but Magnus had seemed to have identified him as one.

"So Nathan really didn't have a chance. I'd been recording his songs for him for months. A great lyricist – don't get me wrong – but man, his guitar playing. Just terrible." He chuckled, and Skwisgaar clenched his teeth.

"But he ams a great singer."

"Yeah, yeah seems he is. He never did that in high school though, he just tried to play bass for me." The brunette laughed again.

After a moment Magnus took up his drink, escaping an unwarranted silence as long as he could. When he put it down again he found his voice.

"So, look, hey. What are your plans with Nathan."

Here we go, Skwisgaar thought.

"I mean, if you're writing together, then you're going to need more… More band members. It is a band, that you want to make, right?" He smirked, Skwisgaar finished his drink.

"Ja.." He weighed up his inevitable answer. Nathan was shooting him signals all night. His friend was obnoxious, that was for sure. But he knew that didn't affect his potential. With a good enough producer, he might not even have to see him that often. He was, admittedly, almost as good as him, at least from a first impression.

He'd been impressed at first. Magnus knew every song, every artist that Skwisgaar could think to mention. His vast knowledge about the blonde was tactfully hidden, which he appreciated. From the little he'd played with him he didn't doubt that he could keep up with him when he needed him to, and if not, he really only needed a rhythm guitarist on stage.

By the time his inner monologue was over, Magnus was looking at him expectantly. He suspected he'd missed what he was waiting for.

"We… We could use another guitarist." He began with a statement in case he was wrong, Magnus looked at him intently.

"For, de live shows and for de musicals writing.. It would be good to haves, another influence." He sighed.

"Sos, if you wants you cans… Maybes record somethinkgs . Wit' us."

Magnus grinned from ear to ear, smugly sitting back in his chair. Skwisgaar motioned to the bartender for another drink as his partner opened his mouth to speak.

* * *

"Crazy story, dood. That's nuts. I mean…" He tried to think, alcohol clouding his mind.

"Well y'know it's not as crazy as you think. People meet at bars n' shit all the time. I mean hey, hey look at us." He awkwardly lifted his drink in a lonely toast which Pickles was too inebriated to join.

"Yeh, I guess you're right. Are you guys startin' a band now, or somethin'?"

"I think Skwisgaar wants to, yeah. I think it's a good idea I dunno I mean maybe it, maybe it isn't, but there's gonna be money and I don't have a job anyway, so.." He trailed off.

"Ah, it ain't so bahd bein' in a band you know, I mean the money's good and all ye gotta do is sing at people, and that ain't so – so bad, cause you do dat in de shower in de mornin' anyway, at least I do." He laughed/. Nathan seemed to brighten a little.

"You know that for sure, huh?"

The redhead paused, remembering his cover.

"Oh ah, I mean, I was in a band… A long time ago – nothing big…" He scratched his hair and smoothed it again, figuring the flatter his hair, the less recognizable he would be.

Nathan continued unprovoked.

"Magnus wants to be in the band. I knew him from like, high school, and he musta saw me on the internet or some bullshit 'cuz now he's here and I think he wants to be in the band too." He rattled.

"Woah, woah, slow down. Dat douchebag?" Nathan smirked.

"Yeah. He's good though, as a guitarist."

"So two guitarists and a singer? That's not quite a band. I mean, you couldah got away with _one_ guitarist, if you had a drummer."

Nathan stared at him blankly, then frowned.

"I didn't even think of a drummer."

Pickles laughed.

"How'd you facken' record a death metal song without a fackin' drummer?" He kept laughing, swaying a little.

"We used a… A drum machine." He looked a little embarrassed.

"Dood, those 'tings are crap. Nothin' beats a real drummer. Authentic sound is so much… Sexier." The redhead's thoughts quickly turned to Sammy. His expression dropped for a moment. He pulled it back to a reserved face. His cigarette had gone out.

"Huh... Well I mean, I played guitar in a band once, too. In high school. Magnus said we were total bullshit. But I thought we had a good drummer. We didn't record anything but I don't like that electronic stuff anyway. It's kinda gay."

Pickles reached forward, unthinking, and carefully pulled the lighter from Nathan's slack fingers. He stumbled forward a little and steadied himself on the vocalist's chest. He tensed. Their eyes met again.

"Oh, ah. My cigarette went out." Nathan was stern again, and Pickles pulled back. Suddenly it was awkward again.

"I… I can play the drums." He cupped his hand to stop the wind and relit his smoke.

"Oh no shit!" They ignited again.

"That's fucken' awesome.. I mean… Did you play drums in your fucken' band?"

"You could say 'dat." Sammy. Pickles shook his head.

"Oh man, man that's cool. You should – I mean. Maybe I could talk to – to Skwisgaar."

"No, no… 'Dat's okay." He hiccupped. The tobacco made him feel even more wasted than he was rapidly becoming.

"No, seriously. We're just picking up whoever at this rate." He rolled his eyes.

"So you should… I mean, it would keep me sane, if you're good enough… You could join us?" He smiled awkwardly, looking hopefully on his red-headed acquaintance.

"Ahh… Look man, I'm jest getting' outta a…" He paused.

"A bad relationship."

"Well even better, it would distract you pretty good I'd think." He was insistant. Pickles sighed.

"Yeah I spose I could give it a shot." He hiccupped again. He knew he should head to the bathroom. He searched his pockets again.

"Look man, here's my card. I gotta go… Go an'" He burped.

"T-throw up." He clapped the soppy card into his new friend's hand and brushed past him. He flicked his cigarette, which caught in the lap of an unknowing bar slut. Nathan didn't have a chance to say goodbye before Pickles disappeared into the crowd. He looked down at his hand.

The card was non-descript. Black writing on good quality card stock. It read 'Pickles the Drummer', beneath it was a number and email, and below that a short description that read 'celebrated drummer, guitarist and sound engineer.'

Nathan frowned and crushed it in his palm, the ink he'd failed to read on the back of it smudged in his hand.

'Snakes N' Barrels Front Man, 1986 – 1999'


	6. You're Like SeeThrough

Rain was spitting down outside the bar, droplets glinting in the streetlight, coating the road in a fine mist. Skwisgaar made a gesture down the asphalt and his driver flashed the lights of the hummer.

Nathan pulled his jacket back on and they strolled towards it, tripping over their intoxication.

"That guy didn't buy me cigarettes."

Nathan muttered, attempting to strike conversation.

Skwisgaar didn't seem to have heard him, but he produced his pack and extended a smoke to him anyway.

"I didn't say I wanted one."

The blonde shrugged and pocketed the spare, lighting his up.

The drive was a short one. They'd stayed around Hollywood that night for the guitarist's convenience.

He seemed a little broody, Nathan assumed this may have been the fault of his high school friend.

"So… What did you guys talk about?"

He glanced sideways, but Skwisgaar was already half out of the vehicle. He pulled on the door handle and followed suit, and after a moment of instruction the car rolled quietly away.

"I wished 'dats you hads not brungds dis friends to me, Nat'an."

Skwisgaar brushed his hair back over his shoulder. The rain had intensified and clear droplets slicked down the length of his locks, dripping from the ends.

He was already en route to the building ahead of them, and Nathan, similarly soaked, moved to catch up with him.

"I didn't really wanna have him come along, I mean I couldn't just be rude so I just kinda invited him…"

He frowned, desperately trying to find a way to apologize before Skwisgaar put him out of his misery.

"I thinks I am justs in a bad moods. He's be fine for de bands, so what's should I's care."

The pair entered the elevator and he made use of the keyhole underneath the number pad, punching in a security code to ensure his access to the most prestigious of apartments.

"I just gots weared outs! Didn'ts even bringks de parties back here."

He paused, looking for phrasing.

"Heys so you wants to maybes order some strippers?"

Nathan choked on his own saliva and began a coughing fit just as the elevator doors slid open. Skwisgaar shrugged.

"Suits yourselfs."

He pressed one palm against the wall, bending to remove one of his boots.

"I think I'm gonna have one more drink."

Without asking, Nathan moved to the lounges bar, wrinkling his nose at its contents.

Skwisgaar kept it well stocked with 'Girlie Drinks' in a few different varieties, for when he had guests. Nathan picked a sickly orange colored one, finding citrus to be the least offensive of all artificial flavors.

"I might take you up on that cigarette too, if that's okay."

Skwisgaar was on the ground now, pulling hopelessly at his second boot. It came unstuck with a plop and his foot smashed through the drywall with the force. Without noticing this, he turned over and stretched out on his knees to reach his jacket. Once he found what he was looking for he tossed the pack to his friend. Having seemingly forgotten how to walk, he crawled to his abandoned shoe.

"I think I wills go to bed. I don't needs to drinksgigs anymore."

He hiccupped, on the verge of a retch.

"I'll just crash on the couch when I'm done, I guess."

He twisted the printed top off his embarrassing drink.

"No, no.. De… De guest…rooms…"

Skwisgaar crawled forward, towards the main hallway.

"It's… It's ams… Oh.."

He heaved again, hair trailing on the carpet. Managing to keep his sickness in, he pressed his hands to the wall, leaning on it heavily for support as he stood.

"De ones neksts to mine."

He slumped forward and out of sight around the corner.

Nathan shook his head. When had the guitarist had enough time to get so drunk? He'd seemed just fine at the bar.

Shrugging, he turned towards the balcony, letting himself out into the crisp desert air. He lit up and exhaled quickly, strolling towards the far rail.

Skwisgaar's place was pretty impressive, he had to admit. He figured the Swede couldn't have been in the states for more than a couple of years, he'd only heard him at the beginning of the year before, but his apartment was certainly well lived in.

Outside was only clean because of the housekeeping he employed, he was sure. Ashy stains littered the ground, other, more ominous patches of dark concrete alluded to something else. Nathan expected he wouldn't be getting his deposit back completely intact.

Inside the house it was the same story. Personal effects were left where they were placed. He had to have at least five instruments lying around, poorly placed art-deco pieces sat on the clean surfaces strewn around the place.

He had an eclectic taste, if you could call it taste at all. The majority of these things appeared to be Swedish of origin, a reminder of home, he thought. Skwisgaar didn't dislike his American home, but you could tell he felt superior whenever he spoke of it.

Nathan didn't blame him. Los Angeles, of all places, was an artificial haven.

Half way through his cigarette he decided he was done, tossing the butt over the edge of the balcony.

He stumbled inside and steadied himself on the door frame, shutting up quietly behind him. He took a bottled water from the fridge and cracked it open on his way to the guest room.

He found it stagnant. The sheets were regularly changed, but from the look of the place, it was hardly ever used. The curtains were drawn back, but the air was stale. No doubt the company Skwisgaar kept usually stayed in the common areas, and more than occasionally, the Swede's master bedroom.

Satisfied that his quarters would be hardly tainted by groupies, he stripped off his shirt and made his way to the bed.

He slid his boots off, sprawling backwards onto the comforter.

Nathan was in good shape. His jeans clung tightly to his hip bones, causing only a tiny bulge over the waistband. This was relieved when he unfastened his belt, slinking the fabric down his legs before kicking it off onto the floor. He crawled up to the line where the sheets met the pillow, and strained to undo the tight tucking ensured by the guitarist's maid.

Once he was comfortable he rolled on his side, switching the bedside lamp off. He exhaled, trying to focus his swimming head on the nights events.

He would be seeing a lot more of Magnus. He'd assumed the guy would find a way into his affairs if he had something to offer, Magnus was always like that. He ignored his worries that the guitarist would take _this_ away from him, as he'd done with things in the past. Skwisgaar wasn't too fond of him, he assumed. If anything, his friend would be replaced when the opportunity presented itself.

He tucked his hand into his underwear, scratching his pubic hair. Pickles. He hoped it wasn't the alcohol or the bad company that had given him a shine for the redhead. He seemed like a pretty cool guy, and if there was room for him in the band, he would be more than happy to balance out Magnus' presence with him.

His mind began to fog with sleep. He flexed his hand over his own flesh, not hearing himself murmur the drummer's name before giving himself up to unconsciousness.

* * *

He smoothed his suit and checked the time. It wasn't even 8 am yet. Pickles had found himself wide awake four hours earlier, and he couldn't get back to sleep.

He could have remedied this with his usual cocktail of sleep medication, but that wasn't the way he had wanted to start this particular day.

Since hearing about Bullets he couldn't bring himself to. It felt bitter. He checked his hair again. Without its usual styling it fell in curls down his back, frazzled by straightening irons and product. The thinning on top of his head was beginning to bother him. It made him feel old, and uninspired.

Before the sun began to peak over the horizon he was in the bathroom, teasing and teasing at the bottom layers of his hair, forming dreadlocks. Underneath his bangs now hung a layer of them. He figured, if that didn't make him feel better, he could always shave it all off.

As it was it looked good. Changing his appearance meant he could begin to separate himself from the life he'd lead until a week ago.

He was to meet the lawyer, Charles, at 9.

He had left his face bare, changed his mind at the last moment and applied eyeliner. There was something that made him feel naked without it.

He couldn't disclose on the phone what he wanted to see the lawyer about it, he didn't really know himself. He figured he'd make something up on the way. He told himself he wanted to keep him close, since he knew what happened between him and Sammy.

It was finally late enough that he could warrant leaving the apartment, so he stuffed his wallet in his pocket and headed to his car.

He drove by the beach on his way, stopping for a coffee. He drank it was quickly as his burning taste buds would allow, knowing he'd have to purchase a second one upon arrival.

Pickles had suggested they meet at the Santa Monica Promenade, not the most inconspicuous of places, but at least it gave him a chance to try out his new look. He left his car on the lot closest to fourth street and Wilshire, strolling a couple of doors down to their meeting place.

The Coffee Bean was fairly full that time of the morning. Mostly working types getting their morning caffeine fix, the tables were unoccupied. Pickles picked one for himself outside and put his feet up on the table, reaching in his pocket for a pack of fags.

He unconsciously ran his hand through his hair before it snagged on the beginning of a dreadlock. He winced, remembering they were there, and moved instead to smooth back what was left of his fringe, tweaking his shades.

He sat and watched people go by for a half hour, slowly filling up the ashtray in front of him, for a lack of anything better to do. He was only just beginning to resent his vow to stay off drugs for the day when his acquaintance caught his eye from across the street.

Charles was dressed in his usual business attire, a grey suit, complete today with a subtle blue tie. Pickles squinted. Either his glasses were tinted or the lawyer was sporting sunglasses.

A bus stopped in front of the crosswalk and he was hidden from view. Seizing his opportunity, he checked his reflection in the glass window next to him. Sufficiently satisfied, he faced forward, looking into his empty coffee cup.

By the time the bus passed Charles had lost the shades, his usual glasses replacing them. He spotted Pickles before the light changed, and he made a beeline for the redhead.

"You're real early." Pickles commented as Charles approached.

He paused for a moment; he didn't think the singer had noticed his approach.

"Yes. I was going to catch up on some reading before our meeting. But since you're here now, we might as well get to it."

He set down his briefcase and slid into his chair, unclasping the latches on it.

"Now, can I ask why you brought me here?"

_Shit. _ Pickles thought. He hadn't made a reason in his head yet.

"Just eh… Relax a minute, go grab yer coffee."

He tossed his sunglasses on the table and swept his hand at the lawyer. Charles raised an eyebrow and carefully stood.

"Alright, I'll ah – be back in a minute."

The lawyer strolled inside. Pickles bit his lip. He followed Charles from the corner of his eye and glanced at the television mounted on the wall inside. Skwisgaar Skwigelf was on it, being interviewed on _Good Morning America._

Skwisgaar… Pickles checked his pockets. Finding the guitarist's business card from the night before, he took a breath, and decided his excuse would do.

Charles returned, holding a tall styrofoam cup in each hand. He retook his chair and placed the drinks on the table.

"I noticed yours was empty."

Pickles glanced down, as if confirming his suspicion.

"Ah yeah, yeah it is."

"Here."

He pushed the latte toward him and he took it in his hand, taking a sip.

"So, what can I help you with."

"It's kind of a musical thing."

He flicked the card across the table and Charles took it up, studying it under furrowed brow.

"I met… Skwisgaar… You know who he is right?"

He didn't bother for the lawyer to answer him.

"Yeah, so, he wants me to join in on his new… Whatever he's doin'. So I thought you could maybe negotiate a contract or somethin'."

He pressed his elbows on the table. Charles was quiet for a moment, then he reached forward into his suitcase, producing a laptop.

"Yes, yes of course."

"You're done this kinda shit before?"

"I deal with contracts all the time."

"Have you ever, y'know, worked with him?"

"Skwigelf? Yes. I'm actually currently contracted with him to - ah, the same ends as your request."

"Well… There you go."

He took a quick drink.

"-You can call him if ya need to, he gave me dat card 'imself." He reasoned.

"Yes, I believe you."

The lawyer was already typing. Pickles struggled to think. He pinched his nose, reaching in his pocket for more cigarettes.

"Yeah… So… What do we do with this?"

"Well I'll get in contact with him about it, and go from there. I think it should be reasonably easy, his recent activity suggests he doesn't – ah… Know what he's doing."

Charles stopped himself and took up his coffee, forgetting his business resolve for a moment. It was early, after all.

"Okey, great!"

Charles kept tapping, and Pickles lit his cigarette, watching the crowd stroll by.

"Also, ah…" He looked down at his drink. He peered back up once he realized Charles had ceased typing.

"I was wondering if maybe, you'd wanna… Like, hang out some time." As if he wasn't awkward enough himself, the silence that followed hung thick in the morning air.

"I don't. I don't understand what you're asking here."

"I don't mean business." He inhaled.

"I mean, outside of work." He scrambled to think.

"I mean – I'm just out of a jerb right now, yer? So, hey I have, like, experience, producing records and shit, maybe I could get some advice from ye, if dat's the kinda thing you're into." His mouth twitched into a smile.

"I think that could be arranged." He was typing again.

"I don't mean, schedule me in or anything." The lawyer looked up, Pickles scratched the back of his head.

"I mean just like, after work, if you wanna grab a drink."

The lawyers eyes narrowed, Pickles shot him a greasy grin.

"I don't get much ah – time off these days." He sipped.

"But if you're serious about it, I can see you after work tonight."

He was so stiff, Pickles thought. Everything about him was professional, as if being asked for a drink was as much of a business transaction as anything else in his life.

"Yeh! Sure! I can do tonight! Where'd you wanna meet?"

"Ah.."

More typing. Pickles, determined to get his eyes off the keyboard, leant forward, inadvertently blowing smoke in the lawyer's face. Charles stared at him.

"I mean – do you wanna go to a bar? Somethin' quiet y'know… I know this place in Hollywood."

Charles opened his mouth to reply, but was inadvertently cut off.

"I live in the valley, so it's north Hollywood…" He drummed his fingers on his cup.

"So if you're near 'dere…"

"My apartment is – " Charles paused and cleared his throat, remembering himself.

"It's near enough to get there."

"Okay, great."

He scribbled down the address on a napkin and passed it over the table. Charles took it without looking and inserted it carefully between the pages of his contact book.

"Is that all then?" Charles glanced at his platinum watch.

"I scheduled an hour for this appointment." He chuckled, the redhead's cheeks reddened.

"Yeah, I mean, I didn't think it would be 'dat easy, to, get a holda Skwisgaar, y'know. He's so big."

He felt compelled to continue the conversation smoothly.

"But you can just, I mean, we could just chat if you have some time."

Charles paused his typing and Pickles squirmed.

"I suppose that would be adequate."

Pickles exhaled the last of his cigarette and reached for another, offering the pack to Charles, who eyed it, but declined. He took a deep breath under the flame of his bic, and sat back a little.

"So… Where'd you go to school?"

"Yale, for my undergraduate, Harvard for my master's degree." His hands were now folded on top of his closed laptop.

"What'd you study, at Yale, I mean."

"A double degree, music at the Arts center, management at the business school."

Pickles detected a hint of a smile.

"Ahh, what campus?" He floundered. His knowledge of university failing him.

"Conneticut for both, but I took some courses through UCA for music."

Pickles decided to zero in on what he knew.

"oh, ah, off campus then?... What did you play?"

Charles chuckled at this.

"They had a resident professor on campus. My main instrument was guitar, but I ah – quickly moved into general theory."

"Oh.."

He inhaled and sipped his coffee before letting his breath escape.

"I played guitar for a while, too. Mostly for recordings, y'know, I was better in the studio than Tony was." His companion's expression was unreadable.

"But I never went to school for it or nothin'"

"Did you, attend any secondary education at all?"

It was hard to tell if the lawyer's tone was condescending.

"Nah, I didn't even graduate high school man" He laughed.

"I left home when I was 16, joined Snakes N' Barrels when I was 17." They both sipped.

"It was fhine for me I mean, I got straight into workin' on 'dat when I got to LA, haven't been out of it since."

"I see." Charles blinked.

"Yeah, so…" He struggled.

"You got a girlfriend?" He froze, blurting out the question. Charles shifted a little, uncomfortable.

"I'm, not sure how that's relevant Pickles." They stared at each other.

"No, I don't."

"Why nat?" He ran with it.

"I ah – don't have time for personal matters like that."

"Okay."

Charles continued.

"It's not something that's important for my career."

Pickles dragged his hand through his hair.

"Well, I mean, me either, it's just, real hard to… Do 'dat stuff, when you're on tour or working on an album and whatever. It'll happen, especially if we get this deal, huh?" He laughed sheepishly.

Charles checked his watch.

"I should probably ah – get going, Pickles." He started to pack up his things, the drummer's heart sank.

"Yeh, I got shit to do today too." He lied.

"I'll expect your call around seven."

The lawyer finished his coffee and stood, extending a hand.

Pickles shook it, noting the coldness of his hand.

"Sure, yeh, I'll call ya."

Charles nodded his head, and turned to leave. Pickles let him go, staring solemnly down at his drink.


	7. As a Trend, As a Friend

Man this fic is disorganized. If the urge ever strikes me in the future I will definitely try to rewrite it. Doing first drafts drunk and editing them with a hangover isn't working very well. But it's fun. More thoughts – Will eventually have song-fic type parts in here, cause I think that stuff is fun to write, and it's good to subtly shove your musical taste into people's faces, (though I'm going to go hardmode, and only include songs written before 2000) and I might even include some original stuff, dunno, see how this wine goes down…

Fun fact; the places I write about in Los Angeles are all based on real places. I worked in sound for a while there and had similar experiences.

Ahh alsssso thanks for your support, it's really interesting to see the traffic. Lots of delicious slash in the future, something for everyone, I promise! I'm a vacuous whore, so do comment. Spurs me on.

Okay let's do this…

* * *

It was closing in on the middle of Spring now, but Winter seemed to be lingering in New York City. The dismal weather couldn't bother Toki Wartooth. He'd packed up his bags and left them by the door the previous morning, before heading down to the main hall of the student accommodation building, a letter clutched in his hand. The other students, none of whom he'd spoken to, had either opened theirs, or were sitting in the dining hall, as Toki was, enjoying one last meal before they tore open their envelopes to reveal their fates.

He was expecting the worst, but hadn't lost his appetite, so he scoffed down his cooked breakfast before picking at the glue on his uncovered result.

He needn't have worried, Toki scanned the paper for what was probably a good 10 minutes, carefully translating every word leading up to the verdict, savoring it, though he gave it up when he caught the word "accepted".

Back in his room his clothes were now strewn around, and Toki himself was tucked up in his bed, enjoying the little sleep in he'd allowed himself. Class didn't start for another week, and though he spent a great while worrying about what to expect, that morning was his to enjoy.

The stubborn weather fogged up the tiny window above his single bunker bed. The place was well equipped as a living space, but aged. Toki's room consisted of a bed, table, chair, wall closet, lamp and mirror. It also had a bathroom that caught drafts entirely too easily and made whirling, ghostly noises when the wind blew through it.

The little room was to be his home for the next two years if all went to plan. The course was prestigious, but the international students were placed all together in the oldest building on campus. This was because they assumed the foreigners would behave better, as much as any academic excuse.

Toki liked the place. His room had a disused pipeline running through it, and the paint was a different color where a gas heater used to sit.

The carpet on the floor was well worn. Long ladders of it were torn out where someone had picked at it years ago, but it was soft, and when Toki pressed his face to the floor it smelt clean, like mothballs and time.

The ceiling sported a few cracks, and the corner closest to the door was a little discolored with water damage, but he much preferred the personality of the place to the harsh modernity of the classrooms he'd seen.

Walking the halls he could often hear the faint sound of an instrument. Most of the other students were classically inclined, so the melodies he caught in the air were usually romantic and ancient.

Snuggling in his warm bed he could hear a violin somewhere, percussioned by a branch gently tapping at the bathroom window. Now that he was really awake he stretched without sitting up, feeling his hips and toes pop, as they normally did after a long sleep. After a minute he was able to rouse himself to a sitting position. After spending so long in Norway, the cold didn't rattle him as much as the other residents. The temperature should have been paralyzing, but Toki only shivered a little, standing to move to the bathroom.

He'd had his shoulder blade-length hair tied up in the same knot for a couple of days and some of it fell in loops over his ears, wispy tendrils trailed down the back of his neck, but the majority held together at the back of his head.

He pulled it free and shook himself, only having to run his fingers through his hair a couple of times to ward off tangles. His icy blue eyes blinked back at him in the mirror and he decided he didn't need a shower, turning to tiptoe over the shirts strewn around the floor, looking for the right one. Not bothering to strip off his undershirt, he pulled the heavy sweater over his head. He'd slept in his jeans, so he slipped on his favorite combat boots and stepped outside into the hall.

It was quiet, but the sound of the violin was louder in the hallway, he supposed whoever was playing was on the same floor. Blinking in the sunlight he moved to the long window that stretched down the hallway, overlooking the courtyard. His heart warmed with excitement. He had no chores today, except the ones he assigned himself. He was getting used to hearing footsteps outside his bedroom without feeling fear. He could practice where and whenever he liked. A thousand other freedoms flew through his head and swept his heart into the crisp sunshine.

He sighed happily and brushed the lacey curtain with his fingers, trailing his hand along the windowsill as he walked lazily towards the stairs. He'd hardly noticed the violin music growing steadily louder until he turned his head, and found himself staring into an almost empty auditorium.

The music rooms here had been disused for some time since the new facilities across campus being open, he watched dust dance in a silvery plume through the shuttered light. Basking in it was a sole musician, standing, instrument cocked, playing to the pane of glass in front of them.

It was beautiful, he thought. The waify student had creamy cinnamon colored hair, cut straight across at the bottom of the neck. Toki, fascinated, silently moved to the doorframe, peering around it like a cautious child. The figure continued the melody and Toki quickly recognized it and closed his eyes, following along silently with his lips.

He relaxed himself into the moment, forgetting where he was. He rested his head on the door frame and began humming softly along to it. After a minute or so he was aware that the music had seemed to fade, only his own voice carried the tune. He opened his eyes, forehead creasing in worry.

The figure had turned towards him, violin in one hand, a bow in the other. Toki jumped.

"Oh.. Hellos there… I'm sorrys for intekernuptsing you!"

He stared, trying to place at the very least the gender of this person.

"You know Bruch?" The voice was soft, though distinctly male. Toki swallowed and looked into the boys almost violet eyes, embarrassed.

"Yes! I learns him songs in Norway!"

He winced again and clamped his hands over his mouth. His reply had come out way louder than he originally intended. The pale boy just smiled at him placidly. He had the porcelain face of a child, but his eyes appeared old, learned and secretive.

"He's not my favorite."

With dainty white hands his acquaintance placed his bow on a near music stand.

"It just felt like the right thing to play."

The boy brushed his golden-brown hair back over his shoulder. Toki detected an accent; of course he would have one, but couldn't place it.

"I ams Toki Wartooth."

He extended one hand, his other one balled into a tight nervous fist by his side.

"I'm Anthony. Nice to meet you."

They shook. The sound of wind resonated in Toki's ears, and he swallowed.

"I was goingks to go down the floors and sit in the hall.. Wit… Wit' breakfasts. Does you wants to… Get breakfasts?"

Anthony's expression was unreadable, but his eyes studied Toki's face carefully before he answered.

"I already ate, thank you. But I'll come with you if you like."

"Oh, wowee dats would be great I hasn't made any friends heres yet!"

Anthony kept smiling, Toki couldn't help feeling a bit self-conscious under his gaze.

The violinist set down his instrument carefully in its case, and carried it back over to the door, plucking the bow from its stand and placing it beside the violin in one graceful movement, and the pair turned to leave.

* * *

Charles turned down his car radio as he turned into the quiet suburban street in Silverlake. It was only the second time he'd been home in 2 weeks. He checked the clock; it wasn't yet 3pm, so he was a little ahead of his mental schedule.

He only kept work clothes at his office, and if he was to meet Pickles, he would naturally have to assume more casual attire. He had exactly the right amount of everything, carefully divided into sensible ratios to suit.

Most of his clothing consisted of casual business, the second largest category was a bit smarter, he owned a couple of sets of work -out clothes, five formal suits, and perhaps ten pieces of trendy, but classy, casual wear. When he bought something, he'd throw something away. Seamlessly upgrading his wardrobe as if it comprised of computer parts.

He opened the glove box of his car, revealing the control for his residential garage door. He so seldom needed it outside of his vehicle, and it was so cumbersome that he had left it there the entire time he'd owned his BMW.

It wasn't so much a chore to be changing up his routine, in fact he quite enjoyed the surprises life threw at him, it was purely the inefficiency of socializing that got on his nerves.

He stopped his car and unclasped his seatbelt, letting his shoulders fall for a second. He closed his eyes, leaning back against his chair. He exhaled slowly, moving one arm to his neck to expertly release the top button of his shirt from under his tie, before loosening that as well. The next thing to shift was his glasses, which he removed and set in his lap.

Opening his hand he rubbed his temples with thumb and finger.

He looked forward again, grasping the briefcase on the passenger's seat. He raises an eyebrow at himself in the rear view mirror, wondering exactly what he was getting himself into that afternoon.

Now the clock was on three, he stood from his car and walked to the stairs to the side of the garage, removing his oxfords at the door.

When it came to Skwisgaar, he'd come to work outside of his office. Over the last couple of years of working with the Swede he'd moved his business away from Crystal Mountain. He had a feeling it would be worth his while to handle it independently, and now, all at once, he was set to become his manager.

He didn't allow himself to get excited about it, there was still work to be done. Then again, there always was.

First thing was first. He shed his jacket, hanging it on a hook by the kitchen, and moved to the cupboard with flawless routine. From the freezer he produced a decanter of brandy. The glass smoldered in the cozy heat of his flat's kitchen.

The corner of his mouth twitched, and remembering he was alone, he let himself smile.

He'd kept tradition with his alcohol, more often than not rewarding himself for a signature or contract he was able to procure.

Only one of his crystal cut glasses were ever used, but all four were on display in the dining room. He picked one up with deft fingers on his way to the den. He poured three fingers for himself and set the chalice down, chest high, on the bookcase beside his work space.

He picked up the receiver on his corded phone with one hand, pulling a pocket address book from his shirt pocket with the over, flipping a few pages in to where he had Skwisgaar's number written in.

He dialed and waited for the tones to catch up, picking another button apart on his shirt.

"Hhelloh?" The rock star answered. Charles took in a short breath before speaking.

"Yes, Skwisgaar, Charles calling. How are you this afternoon?"

"Ohh Charlie, my heads is feels like its was hits by hammer of Thor, if its was made of alcohol."

"Ah, okay then."

He flicked through the papers in front of him and extracted a printed sheet to the top of the pile.

"I ah - met someone this morning who told me you were interested in, ah, working with them in the near future."

"I keeps tellingks yous, if I tells goyals dey cans work with me then it's ams just a lie so's I can have sex with dem."

Charles smoothed his hair back and gritted his teeth.

"This is, Pickles the drummer, Skwisgaar, he's… Not a lady."

He pushed his glasses up his nose, tracing the page in front of him with his fingers.

"Ohh."

There was a pause, Charles heard some kind of rummaging on the other end.

"So… So I'm guessing you remember meeting him, then. Am I right? Is that… Right, Skwisgaar?"

He let his pen trail on the paper in front of him in wobbly circles while the silence on the line continued.

"Ams you still 'dere?"

He finally answered.

"Yes, Skwisgaar I'm still here."

"Goods, goods. Nathan says he ams rememberingks a Pickle, signs him up!"

Charles detected an eye roll.

"His name is… Is Pickles, Skwisgaar."

Skwisgaar chuckled.

"Ams Pickle. Like de vegetable."

"Yes, right. But with an 'S', Skwisgaar. Pickles. His name is Pickles."

"No, no, his name is dildos."

"It's.. Pickles"

Charles spoke more to himself than to his client, knowing his mind would be far from the discussion by then.

"Have you alreadys dones the tings wit' Nathan's pals?"

"A… Magnus Hammersmith."

Charles was quick to find the page, studying the paper face of the guitarist on his desk.

"Yes, that has been relatively easy; he wasn't… signed with any other label. Are you sure this is your guy?"

He peered closer at the paper.

"Ja, he plays reals good, almosts as good as me, and-"

Charles didn't bother to listen to his reasoning. He studied the file as, he admitted, he had neglected to do before.

Magnus appeared to be a solicitor of sorts, an entrepreneur, having established his own business. He raised ean eyebrow, making a note to look further into it.

"Alright then. I'll have to have a meeting with Mr Hammersmith, have him sign some documents regarding your privacy."

"Cans he ams signs de band consitsecution?"

"Are you…. Trying to say, constitution?"

"Ja."

"Band constitution."

"Ja!"

"Skwisgaar… That – that doesn't exist."

"Dens hows we been signinkgs up people to the bands?" He asked aggressively.

"Look, Skwisgaar, it's fine. He's 'signed up'. So is Pickles."

"You means Dildos."

He heard Nathan growl on the other end of the line, and Skwisgaar giggled under his breath.

"Yeah. So, I'll call you again tomorrow, I'll have confirmed with.. With Pickles by then, so ask Magnus when he can see me, and I'll pencil him in when I call you back."

"Hoh, okays. Ja. Gots it, makes de interview times with Charlie."

He was laughing again. Charles pinched the bridge of his nose. He was in an uncharacteristic good mood despite his hangover.

"Alright, goodbye then."

"Goooooodbyyyeees."

Charles firmly put the phone back into the receiver.

He meant to ask Skwisgaar if he could take full responsibility for his management, but decided he'd rather gamble that the guitarist would be in a quieter mood in the morning instead. He took a deep drink from his glass, sucking his tongue to the roof of his mouth to swallow the vapors that stuck to it.

6pm rolled around in what Charles regarded as little time at all. He had pushed aside the work he'd set out to do. Instead he was far too intrigued by Magnus Hammersmith.

He'd known lawyers from all over the country, and had never heard the name before. This was a sign that he was small-time, and most of his findings confirmed this suspicion.

He worked closely with criminals, primarily. From what he'd discovered his paper trail appeared to be legitimate on the surface, but once he chipped at it a bit he could see it crumbling in a particular fashion.

He was probably taking bribe money, maybe even working shady cases knowingly. None of this bothered the lawyer, it didn't interrupt his business, but he covered all bases just in case.

His documents matched up just fine. He was indeed born in Florida, raised there until he was sixteen. He'd then been sent to boarding school in Delaware, from which he'd never returned. It had taken Charles some time to find his university transcripts. His parents hadn't been the benefactors for this, and Magnus had started paying himself before he turned eighteen, making the record much harder to track. When he found it, it was legitimate.

It wasn't the path of your average crook. There were no black marks, no awards overcompensating his morals. It was bare bones, in almost a perverse manner.

There was no trace of embezzlement up until 1997. He was already managing his own firm, and Charles puzzled as to why he would let the quality of his cover slip. The same year he took on three personal assistants, two were fired consecutively, though the third remained on the payroll as recently as January.

He set his pen down. He could only suspect that he was a small time criminal, and probably did very well for himself, though the placid record he drew a few years earlier did give him the creeps.

He glanced at the clock. He'd have to leave if he wanted to get to North Hollywood on time.

He scowled, remembering he hadn't yet changed. He hated to stew in his suit when it wasn't necessary, though the thing felt like a second skin.

He retired to his bedroom to change, pulling a v-neck from his closet, jeans from the drawers, a cardigan and fitted jacket from the back of the ensuite door.

After retiring his work clothes to where they needed to be he stepped into his jeans, fastening them before throwing the shirt over his head.

He stopped in the mirror for a moment, lifting his arms above his head, examining the skin that peaked out from under it as he did so.

He was in impressive shape for a man of his profession. Like anything else, conditioning his body took up an allotted space in his weekly schedule. His only guilty pleasure was his drink, and the toned oblique muscles running up the sides of his ribs proved it.

He swung his jacket on in one fluid motion and headed for the garage.

Keys, car, road, highway. He'd turned up the radio again, not a big Nirvana fan, he surrendered himself to Cobain's dulcet tones for the first part of his trip.

He drummed his fingers on the wheel at the lights, itched for his notebook in traffic. If there was one thing all successful people he'd met had had in common, it was a fear of aimlessness. Even Skwisgaar had it, he was fairly sure. He wasn't afraid of wasting his time, as long as it wasn't wasted inside his own head.

Charles gave merit to thinking, he took his time to think when he slept, if he ever did. Sorting thoughts into categories, practicing phasing out those of anger or personal dislike. Thoughts of a more positive nature had been rooted out over time, and though some day he'd like to reconnect with them, he had no intention of doing so just yet.

At a stoplight he picked through his address book, finding the address pickles had scrawled down for him. He squinted to read it, memorized the information, stepping on the accelerator as the light turned green. He was already on Magnolia, so he scanned for the name of the pub, finding it after a ten minute cruise.

He glanced up at the sign on the pub, the place was trendy, miniature UK flags hanging above it. He straightened his glasses and pushed the door open.

The inside of the bar was tiny, heavy wood beams hung close to the high ceiling, a stairwell off to the right, the main bar over to the left. The music was jovial, not the usual pop style of regular LA hangouts.

He couldn't spot the redhead downstairs so he ventured up to see if he was on the second floor. He had to double take when he saw him, sitting alone at a booth by the window. He walked forward to greet his contact.

"Good evening, Pickles."

He smiled and the drummer returned the gesture. He took his place on the window side, folding his hands.

"Ye should get a drink at de bar, it ain't as busy up here so a thaught it would be better for us to… Y'know, have a chat."

His head was now covered in dreadlocks, the front few were hooked behind his ears, making them push out of the side of his head.

"Of course."

He stood again, fishing his wallet from his jeans.

Pickles was looking up at him, one hand on the second button of his shirt, which he was hastily fastening.

At the bar he ordered a double Brandy and coke, and couldn't help noticing the Irish accent of the bartender. When he returned to the booth he opened his mouth to question it, but Pickles filled him in.

"It's an Irish bar! This is onna my favourite places, been comin' here fer years now. They know who I am but… They don't know _what_ I am. Occasianally I get like, a stare or maybe someone wants an autograph but, mostly it just, keeps me mellow, y'know."

"Did you ever actually live in Ireland, Pickles?" He resumed his chair and set down his drink, the ice clinking against the glass.

"Yeh. No, no I didn't. I think botha my parents mighta been 'dere, I know my grandparents did. I was 'dere, when I was a baby. Visited them before 'dey died."

"I'm ah – sorry to hear that."

"No, I didn't really know 'em. Doesn't bahther me." They both took up their glasses. From the looks of things Pickles was drinking mojitos.

"I see. It's good to be, aware of your heritage."

"Yeh I think so, especially if you look like me." He grinned, brushing back a stray dreadlock for the third time.

"How was yer day job, man? I'm not sure what you do anyway."

"I'm… Well my main occupation is .." He paused, trying to word it in terms the redhead would understand.

"I'm a lawyer, essentially. I draw up contracts, do a lot of negotiating. I work for Crystal Mountain Records?"

"Oh yeah I know 'dem, of course. We gaht offered a contract with them when we were getting' big, but we declined it fer"

He waved his hand in the air,

"Street credit, or whatever. I dunno, I joined after the band was already up n' running, so I don't have much sey on 'dat stuff."

"Well, they've become quite the contenders, I'm proud to say."

And he was, he took a drink to stifle a grin.

"Well 'dats great fer you, I mean, loadsah people all over 'de world would love to have yer jahb."

"I could say the same for you."

Pickles brightened at this, Charles couldn't help but detect a hint of a blush. He studied his friend's face, making a list of cosmetics he could spot.

"Yeh, everyone wants to be a rahk star… And 'dere's no reason why 'dey couldn't do it neither, except that you gahtta get lucky. I got lucky."

"How did you begin your relationship with – with Snakes N' Barrels."

The ridiculous name caught in his throat. Truthfully, he'd only owned one record by the glam rock group, and didn't particularly care for them.

"I left home when I was sixteen, got into 'de band when I was seventeen – I feel like I've told you this ahlready."

Charles couldn't recall whether this was true or if his own research had shed light on the subject.

"Ahnd.. Yeah I mean, I met those guys at a gig 'dey was doing. I hadn't played guitar before I left home, I picked one up on the way. I couldn't play for shit, but I sortah… Became friends – "

The lawyer noticed Pickles shift his eyes to the side.

"With Sammy. Twinskins, the drummer, y'know. We was both drummers, and I kinda, helped him out a bit. The rest od' de band didn't know, but I was better 'en him, really. So, 'den, one day they was rehearsing and I was just hangin' out and I sang a track just for fun, and Tony was singin' at the time, but I guess they liked me 'cause 'dey aksed me to join 'em. In 'de band."

"Yes, in the band"

He sipped.

"We gaht a record deal after a demo a coupla weeks later."

He chuckled and toyed with his cigarettes.

"I guess they thought I was fackin' sexy."

He raised an eyebrow at the lawyer, who shifted uncomfortably.

"You wanna smoke wit' me?"

"I – ah.."

He eyed his drink and furrowed his brow. He was a hardcore smoker in college, every essay he finished, every draft he completed was always accompanied by a cigarette. He'd given them up cold turkey and never looked back. Besides the odd New Years party (When he partook for the irony) he hadn't touched them, though the thought had crossed his mind many times.

He slammed down the rest of his drink. Already tipsy from his drinking at home he decided it couldn't hurt to accompany him.

"I'll come out with you."

"Hey, hey, woah."

Pickles put up his hand as Charles attempted to rise, causing him to retake his seat

"We'll lose our booth if we both go, it might as well be worth it."

He cocked a grin, and Charles let himself go.

"Yes. I'll join you, alright. Just let me get another drink."

On the way to the bar he frowned, only now realizing it was probably too early for him to be drinking spcially, though he wouldn't extend the night later than it needed to be. He ordered the same drink and pushed away further questions in his head – why was he even there in the first place? Usually when he allowed himself personal time it was for a girl, and –

He shook his head. Best not worry about it.

He picked up his glass ad headed back to the balcony, pausing only to push open the door. Surprisingly, the patio was empty.

Pickles smugly withdrew his cigarettes, American Spirits, at least.

Charles could hardly believe the branding, claiming it was 'natural tobacco', but everyone he ever knew agreed that you got more for your money, considering they lasted twice as long as a Marlboro.

He took one between his fingers, expertly twirling it in his fingers awaiting Pickles' lighter. He passed it on once he'd lit up, and Charles mimicked his action.

Pickles swore and held a dreadlock away from his face, pinching the hair where it was smoldering. Charles wanted to smile. The drummer was obviously not used to his new 'do.

He dragged on the cigarette with ease, the nicotine filling his body more quickly than he ever remembered, and for a second his knees went weak. Pickles was still dragging so he took a generous swig of his drink, being careful not to wince as the alcohol went down his throat.

Pickles exhaled audibly and continued his story.

"Since 'den it's been all gigs and recording. I didn't take it seriously until I saw my face on the news one day and I was like 'woah.. 'dis is the big time.'"

Charles, a little intoxicated, rolled his eyes.

"How could you not notice your popularity?"

After working for years in the business he knew the attitude of a performer.

Before anything big happened each performer would brag about their ability. He could only assume that they kept their eyes fixed on the charts, on the magazines, and on the internet.

"I dunno I just, didn't care about it. I was makin' enough money to like, live in LA, I had everything I never had."

He twirled a lock of hair.

"So it just, didn't occur to me. Then it was stage shows n' shit and, oh, man, the women."

They both laughed at this and Charles shook his head.

"College was ah – a bit like that."

"Yeh, so, dat. And I just kept ridin' that train, but y'know.."

He dragged.

"About 1994, things were really slowed down. Other bands were poppin' up everywhere, doin' this new shit. And I kept getting' paid, so I stayed with it, but lookin' back ,I guess I made a fool outta myself."

"Well, I certainly didn't follow your music." Pickles frowned, so Charles continued.

"I mean, I was more into grunge at the time. I was… Still in school that year."

"Oh hey, that's fair enough. I loved my time with em' but it never really was my thing."

"What… Is your thing?"

Pickles leant heavily on the bannister, looking out at the road.

"Y'know… I don't know. I like a bunch'a music. I didn't think I'd really get anywhere with it, but here I am!"

He brightened and dragged again, Charles followed suit.

"It should be lucrative with Skwisgaar, then."

Pickles smiled, swaying a little.

"Yeah. Was crazy times. Held onto the band until a coupla weeks ago. I'm happy, though. I gaht pleanty of skills, I always liked playing the drums best too."

"Then it will work out for all of us."

Only half done with their cigarettes the pair smoked in silence. The door slid open a crack and a girl of about 30 poked her head out, Charles wasn't looking, but Pickles shot her a look and the door slid shut again.

"I ah – Spoke to him this afternoon. He seems to be happy with your joint venture."

Pickles scoffed at the lawyer's use of language.

"I'll have something drawn up in a week or so, and I actually ah – know of a couple of shows you can play, if you get it together fast enough."

"Oh yeah, 'dat would be awesome."

"Well, good."

They exhaled together again and Charles squinted, nicotine making him feel much more intoxicated than he already was.

"So, where do ya live?" Pickles asked.

"In ah – Silverlake." He answered quietly.

"Oh yeah, yeah I know 'dat place, you commute to Hollywood everyday?"

"Yes, I drive. The traffic doesn't bother me."

He reflected on his sleeping arrangements.

"Well 'dats good. You should come out with all of us, to celebrate the deal."

"I've been to bars with Skwisgaar before, it really isn't something I do often."

"Well since we're all together now, maybe you should!"

"We'll see, Pickles."

They finished their cigarettes.

"So hey, I know it's like, still early… Do you go clubbin'?"

Pickles asked, squinting.

"No. I don't usually."

Pickles opened his mouth, Charles anticipated his offer, so he continued.

"I don't really care for it."

"Oh…"

He stuffed his hands in his pockets, Charles turned towards the door.

"Well never mihnd then."

They both reentered the bar. In the 15 minutes they were outside, the bar had picked up. The music was louder, more obnoxious. They both disapproved.

"I kinda wanna get outta here."

Charles checked his watch. He'd only been out for an hour and a half. The sun had set and the general patronage of the bar had become vacuous with the nightlife.

"S' just naht my scene y'know."

The lawyer didn't have to agree for Pickles to know he did.

"So… I don't suppose, you wanna come back to my place?"

Charles retorted in an instant.

"I have work in the morning, and tonight too if I get a chance."

"Well, alright. Look, one for the road?"

He extended his cigarette pack, and Charles took one.

"Thank you, Pickles."

"Hey, yeh, it's 'de least I could do."

He was obviously conflicted. Charles refused to acknowledge his suspicions as to why.

"Alright then."

He finished his drink, right as an impulse sparked.

"Look. I'll schedule a meeting with the others for the end of the week. If you want to maybe, grab a drink after that then I can ah – make time for that as well."

He took his breath in sharply. Pickles smiled broadly.

"Yeh! Yeh 'dat would be great. Just cahll me."

"I will. Shall we?"

The drummer nodded and the pair finished what was in their glasses and headed downstairs.

Charles wasn't afraid of driving drunk, he'd never been caught. The times he'd been pulled over he'd known enough about road law to talk himself out of any violation, however rarely they occurred.

They parted ways in front of the bar and Charles twirled the cigarette in his hand.

He looked for the glow of his car's headlights as he fingered the unlock button o his keyring. They lit up and he headed towards them, taking off his glasses in the process.

Sitting in his car he felt childish. The pedestrian clothes made him feel guilty that he hadn't spent the last few hours working. He shook his head and disregarded his fuzzed out brain, instead igniting his car, pressing his foot on the accelerator.


	8. All Through The Night

**They never say where Murderface grew up, so I think I'm gonna fill that shit in myself.**

**I keep noticing bits that don't run with the storyline, but I don't think anyone else minds as much as I do about it, so it can stay as it is for now.**

**This stuff is hard! Especially Murderface and Toki. They get to have their own little adventures before meeting the band. I reckon they will find William around chapter 10. I'm getting impatient to write something saucy, but that too will have to wait a little while.**

**I'm sorry to anyone who had to read this before I edited it. I couldn't. Fucking. Figure out the poker game for the life of me. Too drunk, too drunk.  
**

**Oh and hey I apologize for this chapter. I wanted to have a little fun with it, dunno if it ends up coherent or not but whatever. Enjoy it or something!**

* * *

The front lawn was a wrecking yard.

How three equally dilapidated refrigerators managed to make it onto his property, Murderface couldn't say. The grass was long, poking up in patches through the chicken wire and car parts that had seemed to have accumulated on the grass.

The house was stand alone, modern buildings enclosed it on both sides. The place belonged to his grandparents and they hadn't bothered to rent it out for at least ten years before William took the reins.

He carelessly kicked bits of scrap metal and disused appliances out of his way as he beelined for the front door.

In uncanny roadhouse fashion, a pair of squabbling disheveled men tumbled out through the old fly wire door just as William reached for the handle. He knotted his brow.

He'd let a couple of friends stay there, to look after the place while he was away in jail. Damaged property didn't really bother him, but the house belonged to his Grandmother, and if it was beyond his limited handyman skills to fix, then it wasn't to be fucked around with.

He took a breath and pushed on the squeaky front door, yelling in a lisping rage towards whoever was inside.

"HEY YOU ASSCHOLES YOU'RE TURNING MY PLASCH INTO A FUCKING GARBAGE DUMP - YOU THINK I WANNA LIVE IN THISCH KINDA MESSCH? MY GRAMMA'S GONNA BEAT MY ASS YOU…"

Three of his friends looked over their shoulders from the badly stained sofa to his immediate left. Murderface twisted his head around, still spitting words out at them, noticing on the way that the rest of the house wasn't such a wreck.

A couple of cans of paint even lay in one corner, half of the adjacent wall appeared to have been carefully coated with it.

"Oh. Oh hey it'sch not that bad."

He stopped his ranting as if he'd never started, pulling a cigar tube from his pocket, he made a dive jump for the sofa.

"Well hey palsch itsch schure GREAT to be back on the outschide you know! Yeah! It'sch fuckin' aweschome to see you guys!"

He landed headfirst on the middle couch cushion and squirmed himself around until he was facing the right way up. He leaned in close to the short green-haired man to his left.

"There'sch just one little thing I wasch wondering if you could fill me in on, y'know, juscht one little thing that'sch bothering me here Tim."

Tim wrinkled his nose as Murderface invaded his personal space.

"Why… ISCH MY LAWN. A FUCKEN' LANDFILL YOU ASSCHOLE?"

The punk jumped back against the armrest, spilling his beer on the ground. The dirty blond man behind Murderface swore, and he and Tim stared at each other for a moment, before the blonde hastily went to find a cloth for the carpet.

"It's – it's trash day! Y'know, man! Where you put shit on your curb and they come and pick it up! We was just cleanin' it out yesterday, so the place'd look nice for ya! I swear!"

He shrank back a little more and William seemed to pout, again looking around the flat.

"Who'sch they?" He finally answered.

"Ahh, what?"

"WHO'SCH THEY?"

"The garbage people, man!" The blonde cupped his hand and whispered to his colorful friend.

"Yeah, dude! The garbage people!" Tim spoke out loud, nodding his head frantically.

"Well why'sch there three fridgesch in the yard?"

William sat back now, eyeing an open six pack on the coffee table. His spurts of anger made his friends nervous. They understood now why nobody ever housesat for him twice. Living for free was great, but Murderface was, after all, a dangerous man.

"We broke em' – or… They happened to break, while we were here."

"Yeah we replaced 'em though, didn't we Patrick?"

"Yeah!" the blonde chimed up.

"There's a new one in the kitchen, it ain't stolen or anything!"

Satisfied, Murderface nodded, scalping the top of the beer in his hand off with his pocket knife.

"Well okay then."

He popped the lid on his cigar tube and produced an old, half-finished cigar. He lit it with his friend's zippo. Patrick and Tim cautiously retook their seats beside him, barely getting comfortable before his voice made them jump again.

"You boysch wanna do me a favor? I'm gonna be leavin' here again for another month or scho. You can keep looking after it while I'm away, can't you?"

He lifted his arms around the shoulders of his pals, who shifted nervously.

"Well, sure, of course we can, dude!"

Murderface didn't waste any time with details, and stood, puffing his cigar.

"That'sch really nische of you guysch!"

He turned back to the door and kicked it open with his boot, yelling back at the living room as he did so.

"I'll be back in like a week or a coupla monthsch or whatever, schee ya!" He jogged off. His friends could only stare at one another.

Murderface finished his beer before stepping off his property, and once he confirmed the cops weren't following him, he tossed it into the bushes.

In truth, he didn't really have a plan for how long he would be away. He knew he had to visit his family, the last of which were his elderly grandparents, who lived a few days away by train.

This was as good of an excuse as any to stretch his legs. Walking down the main street of his suburb he stopped outside an antique shop to smooth his hair in the window. Straightening his jacket he admired himself for a moment.

He'd always been a little stocky, which his high school acquaintances wasted no time pointing out. His face was frightfully gaunt, and he didn't have a belly to speak of, but his build disguised the folly of malnutrition so well that no one ever noticed when he went hungry over and over again.

He was indignant about food, but as with anything else, he was known to adamantly change his mind at any given moment. Not eating gave him bad breath. No one minded any of this as much as his grandmother, who like some grandmothers, took great offense when her cooking wasn't met with frenzied appetite.

William had secret ways to protest this, throwing up in the back yard after dinner being one of them. They would hardly notice this, and Murderface actually found the sensation pretty cool.

He'd made his way to New York only the previous year, seeking bigger and better things outside the town of Bowie in country Maryland.

Looking back, he decided his childhood wasn't terrible. His caretakers were never able to physically reprimand him enough to leave scars, though his grandmother did pack a mean bitchslap. His grandfather had suffered a stroke when he was only 4 years old, and the old man mostly caused more frustration for his wife than he did.

William was perusing the antique shop now, cigar still lit and in hand. He studied a set of iron-cast military miniatures. He picked one up and turned it over in his hand. Reflecting back on the month he'd left home.

He hated his optometrist, but at the ripe age of 24 his grandma had convinced him to make his own appointment, and he drove himself to it in the family car.

"Your grandmother isn't coming with you this time?"

The eye doctor's silky voice made him uncomfortable.

"No. Sche's bein' a bitch about it."

"Ohh I see. Poor William, going out all by himself. I suppose you can drive now, huh?"

He was fussing over instruments while William sat himself in the examination chair.

"I've alwaysch been able to drive."

"Oh yes, yes of course you have."

The doctor scoffed. Murderface had been coming to him all his life, but he was still spoken to like a child. He scowled.

"Alrighty let's see what we have here."

He pulled his chair in close and lowered a magnifying device over William's head, shining a torch into his left eye.

"Oh, my. Didn't you have… Green eyes before?"

"I've alwaysch had green eyesch."

"They appear a little… Discolored. Your eyes are yellow, William."

"Scho?"

"So… So you might have some mild Lipofuscin accumulation."

The doctor squeezed his knee.

"I'll run you up a diagnosis, we can worry about it later."

Unable to move from his chair, he could only guess the slappy sound he could now hear was his Doc slipping on some rubber gloves.

"What'sch that schound for?" He asked cautiously.

"Oh don't worry about it William! Now, there is a sheet of letters over on that far wall, do you want to read them aloud to me?"

"Ahh.. Schure." He bit his lip. He could have sworn his belt was being fucked with.

"A… E… F… D… Hey doc, what are you-"

"Don't stop reading unless I tell you to!" He sounded annoyed, a little frantic.

He stared at the wall, focusing entirely too hard on the letters in front of him.

"P… Q…. R…. G!"

His voice rose in pitch, something was wrong. There was a hand in his pants.

Murderface shook his head. He didn't like remembering the next part. He'd socked the guy in the face, been fined, and he vowed to never visit the doctor ever again.

Focusing on reality he pocketed the metal soldier in his hand and quietly made his way out of the shop.

He was an unlikely conman, a thief and master of distraction.

He had no way of connecting his intelligence with his language center. It only came out in his actions, most of which happened to be destructive, only criminals looked up to him for his slight-of-hand and subtle manipulation. He never really noticed it himself. He rarely had an inward thought about how good or bad he was at anything.

He didn't feel sorry for himself for not eating, he didn't give a thought to the fact that he only left home at 25, but whoever cared to be around him long enough certainly heard him hollowly complain about it a lot.

He just kept busy. He wouldn't sit still for a moment. Letting himself think was dangerous. Even in jail, when there was nowhere to go, he would play bass guitar, smashing the strings to cause discord when anyone cared to listen too carefully.

He tripped down into the subway, a band poster caught his eye as he descended. Pentagram was playing in a couple of weeks. He squatted and ripped the show details from the bottom half of the poster, balling it up and stuffing it in his pocket as he made his way to the metro.

* * *

Friday rolled around faster than Nathan cared it to.

The week had brought another slew of press events, and Skwisgaar had insisted that one interview a day wasn't that many, but in his books it was.

He would stumble over his words and leave lengthy silences when he tried to remember what the guitarist had told him what and what not to say. At the end of the first day Skwisgaar told him that their new manager had advised him to just keep his mouth shut, let Skwisgaar do the talking, and promote himself as a silent, angry front man, rising from the depths of black metal to meet Skwisgaar at the top.

The story sold well, he had to admit.

He'd finally gotten out of his hotel room, after hinting to Skwisgaar that it wasn't his cup of tea, the guitarist had been more than happy to move him into one of his spare bedrooms. He had to admit, it was nice to come home to a housemate.

They'd even been messing around with a couple of sounds. Nathan was usually shy about the songs he wrote, but Skwisgaar, unable to really understand if the English was good or not, didn't mind what he wrote, so long as it fit the melody.

They'd invited the others around that evening for a debriefing. Magnus had to fly back to Delaware for work, but Skwisgaar said he'd met with the manager already. Nathan didn't really care, he also didn't really understand exactly what was happening, although he supposed that the meeting had been made so that he might find out.

Skwisgaar was happily fretting away when the service phone rang. He picked it up and instructed the doorman.

"Who was that?" Nathan growled from the couch.

"Was reskepion."

"So, what's that mean?"

"It ams means dat someone is here."

"Who?"

"De drummer, I thinks it was. Charlie isn't comingks until 7."

"Okay." He shifted a little. Skwisgaar kept noodling.

"So… Should I… Get some snacks going out here?"

He stood, a little hunched with nerves.

"Ja, sures, get da bottles from the refringidator."

"Okay."

He shuffled through the arch that connected the lounge with the dining room, through again to the kitchen. He stared at the stove. He'd meant to maybe bake something that afternoon, but Skwisgaar had insisted it was easier to just order something. He had to agree.

He did manage to make it to the corner store, where he picked up some chips, dip, flatbread, cheese and olives. He took these out now and began to arrange a platter when he heard the elevator door ding open.

Nathan heard his Swedish friend greet the drummer. He hunched his shoulders even more and arranged delicate crackers on the plate in front of him.

He kept his temper under control as best he could and forced his stubby fingers together to cut squares of cheese, spoon out olives and pool chips in bowls. His frustration payed off in the end and he clutched a plate of crackers in his hand and trudged out to the living room, forgetting to unfasten his apron.

"So I was like, fuck you dood!"

The pair were already chatting excitedly. Pickles' joke brought them to laughs as Nathan slouched into their line of sight.

"Oh, hey man, what's up?"

Pickles was cross legged on the ground. Nathan walked forward, peering into his lap, forgetting the plate he held. Pickles was rolling a joint.

Nathan leant down and the crackers he was holding slid right off the plate, many crushing on the carpet. His eyes widened, and he knelt down over the crushed pieces.

"Oh Nat'ans don't worry abouts dat. We cans just order sometingks if dey whats gets hungry."

He frowned, disappointed and embarrassed, picking up the stack of broken biscuits from the ground.

"Sure. Yeah."

He glanced at Pickles, who opened his mouth to speak.

"Yeah don't worry about it, I ain't too hungry or nothin'."

"Ja, see Nathans? Gets de beer and we's have that insteads."

The singer trudged back to the kitchen, muttering to himself. He quietly cursed, realizing he hadn't so much as said hello to Pickles. He took his apron off and folded the corners in together, using it as a knapsack, stuffing a couple of six packs and some spirits into it. With his other hand free he was able to balance a bowl of chips , salsa and cheese. He carried these back to the lounge without incident and let the apron unfold onto the floor, covering the crumbs from the earlier accident.

"Oh hey! 'Dats what I'm talkin' about."

Pickles' eyes lit up and he leant forward to claim a bottle of vodka. He was still sitting on the floor, lit joint in one hand.

"Hey Pickles. Hi, I mean." Nathan stammered.

"Yeah, hey man, how's it hangin?"

Pickles swigged from the freshly cracked bottle and wrinkled his nose as he swallowed the potent liquid.

"Yeah, it's all… hangin' good."

Unable to find conversation easily, he bent to take a beer and retired to the couch next to his guitarist, pretending to read the label on his drink.

"So, anyways, he was ahll like 'do you even know who I am' kinda thing and I just fucken' punched him in the nuts!"

Skwisgaar burst into laughter and Pickles giggled through the smoke of his joint.

"Oh mans if I ever meets dat guy again I'ms goingks to punch him too!"

He kept laughing and Pickles passed the joint to him. Weed always made Nathan feel edgy, and he decided he would decline should the roach be passed his way. The pair continued talking and Nathan had his chance to say no to drugs a couple of minutes later. Pickles merely shrugged and sucked the rolled paper into his own mouth again.

He looked a lot different to the night they'd met. He was – wearing make up? Nathan squinted.

He was sure it had to be so. The redhead's eyes were lined with liquidy black and there was a glint of shimmer on his eyelids.

He supposed he could be wearing more, only he didn't know the names of each product.

He had on soft cottony jeans that flared out below the knee, frayed on the bottom and at the right knee from wear, or perhaps on purpose.

His shirt was ripped across the top, so the arms and neck formed one hole, bar a strap over his left shoulder, which appeared to be keeping the ensemble from falling down over his bony ribcage. He had on black boots and matching fingerless gloves.

He looked so much… Younger. Nathan noticed his hair. The drummer had it pulled back with a headband, as he had done the night they met, but it was loose down his back, not up in a ponytail. He didn't realize how long his hair was, it cascaded and looped in a thick mass all the way down to his waist. The way he was sitting caused it to brush the floor as he moved his body. The sheer mass of his hair, he decided, was because it had been dreaded all over. Nathan frowned, upset with himself for only noticing the fact after staring at the redhead for minutes.

From snippets of conversation he was able to focus on, he discerned they were talking about encounters they'd had with other bands. He didn't have anything to contribute, besides one time when he was 14, when he'd met Dimebag, but he didn't suppose that would be very interesting. Instead he sipped his beer, eyeing off the chip bowl on the coffee table.

"Hows am yous hangkings out with dems famous rock bands anyways, I never knows anyone who has done mets as many as I have!"

Pickles appeared to falter for a second, but masked it by swigging from the bottle in his lap.

"Oh I ah, I was en' engineer for a while. I worked with guys who worked with them, y'know, getting' references, makin' coffees…"

"De grunts works." Skwisgaar cracked a beer.

The phone rang, and the Swede rolled his eyes.

"Ams Charlie I bets, he is always early, like clockswerks." He picked up the phone, Pickles twirled a dread and turned Nathan's way, dropping the butt of his joint into an empty beercan.

"Don't suppose the manager cares about a lil' paht smoke." He grinned, Nathan managed a shrug.

"Or anythin' else." He tapped his nose.

Skwisgaar put down the phone and giggled into his beer.

"Okays, okays. I has to sobers up a bit or I won't be havingks any good ideas as to whats ams anyone sayingks. Maybe I should – eat some of thems crackers you gots, Nat'an!" he let his laugh build, Pickles smiled and shook his head, Nathan however, was not amused.

"Y'knows, sobers me up a bit, like breads!"

Skwisgaar, having lived there a long time, could tell from the faint mechanical sound of the elevator when it was coming all the way up to his floor, so he straightened himself and brushed beer droplets off his singlet before the doors opened. The other two, upon hearing the doors open, then attempted to refine themselves.

Charles let his mouth twitch in a smile when he saw this, knowing it was a sign that the trio already respected, or at least feared him enough to pay attention to their appearances.

"Good evening boys."

He stepped forward into the familiar entrance hall, nodding his head at first his host, and then the accompanying men. He took a seat across from Nathan on the adjacent couch, briefcase clutched in his hands.

"How are you all?"

He began to set up his mobile office, not looking up as he spoke.

Nathan and Pickles answered the small question at the same time, falling over each others words, while Skwisgaar stood and made his way to the minibar, producing a fresh bottle of Brandy.

"Ah, thank you, Skwisgaar." The Swede poured him a drink and then resumed his seat, picking up his Explorer.

"Well. Magnus isn't here right now but I can tell you that he – sends his regards." He curled a stray hair behind his ear and cleared his throat. The boys' eyes were fixed on him, though they fidgeted with whatever was in their hands, Pickles took a rather large gulp from the vodka bottle.

"He seems to have a –ah.. Mind for business, as I do, so we made a joint decision to – have you guys open for a band in New York in a couple of weeks."

"Open for someone?"

Nathan asked, Skwisgaar picked up the wrong intention from his objection.

"Ja – opens for someones? We alreadys are so goods we should haves our own shows you know?"

"Yes well. We believe it would be a – wise move. Skwisgaar your track record with bands isn't exactly… Impressive."

Skwisgaar opened his mouth to protest.

"The band you'll be opening for is Pentagram. Now they have been on and off for a long time now, struggling with drug abuse and other – personal issues. But they're – revered by metal fans everywhere and their story has become somewhat legendary. This is the first time they've played for more than six years. This would be an opportunity to get your music out to ah – other artists of the genre, and for you to show – something of a commitment, this time. In that context."

He took a sip of brandy, staring around at the dumbstruck faces.

"You do… Understand, don't you?"

"Ja, sure.. ja…"

Pickles was looking at him intently, but his eyes were reddened and a little glazed, Charles had to give him credit for at least looking like he was paying attention. His eyes lingered on the red head a second longer, observing his appearance. It was much more Snakes N' Barrels than even what he was wearing when they had first met, but he looked younger, much less tired. Perhaps even …

He turned his head to Nathan, who was also focusing on him.

"Good. That's in two weeks' time. I expect you can play on stage as you are, now? Magnus offered to ah – play bass, if you require it, Skwisgaar."

The Swede didn't even have to think.

"Nah. I wants him on rhythm guitar so he can puts accents on my leads. Makes it sound ways more betters."

"Well, that's up for you to decide for the night. I'll be booking flights for you all to New York in the next day or so."

"Greet. Is 'dat all the business we gotta talk about? Can we, like, pal around now?"

Pickles chimed in, staring downward intently as he rolled a second joint.

"Actually Pickles, I was going to introduce you – officially – to Skwisgaar, as I don't believe you two have ever met in a – remotely professional context before."

Pickles searched his eyes for the hint of a joke, but couldn't find one.

"So Skwisgaar, you probably know that this isn't Pickles' first rodeo. He's been on the circuit for – I believe about 10 years now." Pickles bit his lip.

"I believe he's been a guitarist in his time as well, but his main outfit was S-"

"Heeey.. Hey woah wait ahn a second there, chief. I think I'd rather say all this stuff myself."

Pickles scrambled up off the carpet and stood almost directly in front of the lawyer, shooting a look over his shoulder that Charles translated as a warning to shut his mouth.

"Yeah I was an engineer for a lahng time, like I told ya before, and I was in like, a coupla bands maybe here n' 'dere… And maybe I mighta stood in fer someone now and 'den. I did, uhm." He counted off on his fingers.

"Guitar a coupla times, I was a singer in my own prahjects, nothing worth mentioning,"

He looked over his shoulder at Charles again.

"And I played drums, accourse. There. That's my CV. But I'm ahlready in the band n' all so we can skip checkin' references, right guys?"

The room was silent for a minute. Pickles dropped his hip and clapped his lighter between his hands, letting the flame kindle the joint between his lips.

Nathan was the first to speak.

"That's uuh.. Pretty impressive, y'know. Like, 10 years? Brutal."

"Ja, ams brutal that you wasn't in anythingks good."

The Swede laughed, and the others fidgeted. There was no doubt that the guitarist could get a big head, though he meant no real harm.

"Heh, yeh, well you just wait n'til I'm yer drummer, guy." He smirked, letting Nathan and Charles relax.

"Yes. Right. Good." The Lawyer scanned his laptop, the light reflecting back at the band through his glasses.

"We need to discuss, perhaps band names? Now this doesn't really need to be immediate, it is a big decision, but I want you guys to start thinking about it. Besides that, Skwisgaar, I've taken the liberty of updating your promoter on our movements, and Pickles, I actually – ah… Fired your manager."

The redhead winced, moving his eyes from the Lawyer to Skwisgaar and back.

"Ah, yeh, sure, I dun' care."

In reality, he _did_ care. His manager had been very good to him over the years. He made a note to contact him about it, maybe send him a fruit basket, and passed his smoke to Skwisgaar, who popped the end of it into his mouth quickly, so he could continue picking on his Explorer.

"Good. Then we're getting close to becoming a unit."

Nathan felt he had to speak up at this moment.

"So, this might be a, this is a stupid question but I wanna know… What's your name, dude?" Skwisgaar quit his strumming, and Pickles scoffed into his vodka bottle.

Charles swirled his brandy and smoothed his hair.

"Did – Skwisgaar… Not inform you about me?" He looked toward the blonde, who simply shrugged.

Charles exhaled and closed his laptop.

"My name is Charles. You can call me that or – ah, Mr. Ofdensen. I've been Skwisgaar's manager for a couple of years now. I am a qualified lawyer and contractor. I work for Crystal Mountain Records, perhaps you've heard of them."

He raised an eyebrow and tossed Nathan a business card in one fluid motion. It landed in his lap.

"Oh… Right."

He growled, picking up the piece of cardstock.

"Now ah, if there are any other questions, then now is the time."

He folded his arms. The room was silent for a moment as the boys gathered their collective thoughts.

"I gots one." Skwisgaar piped up.

"I was wonderingks if you wanted to stay and get drunk with us tonight."

He cracked a shit eating grin and Pickles did the same, Nathan was still staring at the lawyer's card.

Charles paused for a moment.

"I suppose, perhaps, some bonding might be useful. We will all be working together a lot. I can stay for a little while.

Pickles and Skwisgaar cheered, and Pickles scurried to the blonde to fist bump him.

"Yeh I think dat's a pretty good idea, I don't really know these fuckers very well."

"Another drink then, Skwisgaar." Charles raised his glass to his captive audience and drank the remains of it.

"Ohhoh, dis one ams goingks to be a double, Charlie!"

The Swede's mood had picked up considerably. Nathan couldn't understand the excited reaction from his counterparts. The Lawyer just seemed like a suit to him, nothing to get crazy about.

"We should play a game. Any of you's know how to play poker?" Pickles grinned.

* * *

By the time Pickles had finished the bottle of Vodka, the others were well and truly blasted.

In theory, it should be the redhead who had to excuse himself to the bathroom, but as the blonde stood and staggered in that direction, he merely laughed and dealt the next hand.

"Man, fer a buncha rockstars, you guys sure can't hold yer liquids." He twirled a dreadlock.

Nathan was well and truly drunk, and he could only assume Charles wasn't far behind him, though he remained the most composed of the four. Skwisgaar had insisted that betting money was boring, so they pooled drinks in the center of the table as incentive not to lose.

Skwisgaar hadn't played the game before and was the obvious loser, Pickles, a veteran, drank from a bottle of schnapps between occasional losses.

Nathan kept the middle ground, quietly focusing on his cards harder than any of the others, but as the game dragged on and he became more intoxicated he seemed to loosen up a bit.

"I think we should call it quits after this one, we've subjected blahndie to enough pain." Pickles giggled.

The three of them looked at their cards. Pickles, holding a ten and a three, decided to up the ante.

"Neither ev you guys smoke paht, right? Yeh. So I'm thinkin' loser shares this jay with me. What y'reckon?"

The remaining pair shifted uncomforytably. Not giving them a chance to answer he continued

"En' if I lose, y'know, whatever, dare me something!"

He dealt the house cards. A three and an ace. Nathan looked from his cards to the table and frowned, obviously not doing well.

"We should make it something really bad Charles."

The lawyer's face didn't falter.

"Yes, alright, I'm game."

"Yeah, alright." They pondered for a second.

"How about.. Uhh.. How about, Pickles, you have to… Uhh… Hey, yeah." He grinned.

"You gotta play us a song, a whole one. Somethin' really gay. What do you think, Charles?"

"I'm willing to bet that."

"Alright then. You gotta sing Cyndi Lauper. If you lose. How 'bout that."

"Agreed!" Charles sipped from his 5th brandy, raising an eyebrow at Pickles daringly.

Pickles turned over the first card on the table.

"An ace! Yeah. Ahnd, I'll raise you. You guys gahtta… Uhm.." He twirled with ideas in his head before deciding.

"You guys gahtta make out. Yeh. When Skwisgaar comes back, just like, outta the blue. So he thinks yer gay." He laughed.

Nathan scrunched up his face.

"Dude, that's fucken' gay. I'd never make out with a dude."

The silence that followed was tellingly awkward for the three of them. Pickles eyed Nathan, who sucked his cheeks in and reached for his beer.

"I think maybe, that's a little much, Pickles."

"Eh, ya pussies. Fhine. If you guys lose you gahtta take three more shahts. 'Dat's enough to make you sick, right?"

"I ah – don't know about that." Charles smiled again and shuffled his hand.

"No way, I can take three shots easy." Nathan growled.

"Alright, make it four. Whaddo I do?"

"Well, Pickles, how about if you lose, you give up on the drugs for a week. Cigarettes too." Charles peered over his glasses, his face taking on a serious tone.

Pickles frowned.

"Yeah! Alright, good! I can do 'dat, not that I'm gahnna lose anyways."

He turned over the next card, a king.

"Okay I'm holding on this one, guys?"

"I fold." Nathan plonked his cards down on the table, a pair of sevens, and looked towards Charles apologetically.

"I'll stay." Charles curled his lip.

Pickles confidently reached forward and turned over the last card as Skwisgaar entered the room.

"Another three! Fuck yeah! Read em! Yeah!" Pickles slapped his ten and three on the table.

"Three of a kind, _AHND_ a pair'a aces. 'Dat's a-"

"– a full house, if I recall. Ace and Kings?" Charles carefully layed out his cards. An ace and a King.

"Holy shit!" Nathan sat forward.

"Aw, fuck!"

"Ha hahs, you haves to drinks!" Skwisgaar hiccupped and sat down on the floor next to the others.

"Noo man it's way worse 'dan 'dat."

Pickles looked grim. Nathan explained the extrapolated rules and Skwisgaar exploded in laughter.

"You ams going to skerendade us, Pickle?"

He and Charles chortled. Nathan looked embarrassed for his drummer.

"Fuck. FUCK!"

He took another swig from the bottle. He gestured to Skwisgaar, who happily handed his explorer to the singer. He couldn't back out now.

"What if I don' know any o' her sahngs?"

He squinted, hoping the excuse would do as a last resort.

"Nope! Nope! You said you would!" Nathan retorted in a singsong voice, swaying.

"Ah, fhine. Fuck you guys."

"We's sees what your voice sounds like now, yous momtherfucker."

Skwisgaar scooted forward in his chair, Charles shot him a look, knowing Skwisgaar's bedroom habits could easily deny him use of the term.

Pickles tuned the guitar a step higher, scowling at his audience.

"Can I smoke in here, Skwisgaar, I gahtta make the most of this."

"Sure, whatevers you needs, I've had a Change of Hearts about 'dat rules."

Charles snorted alcohol through his nose, causing all four of them to erupt.

"Yeah dude, y'know, whatever you gotta do, smoking in the house is kinda gross but if you gotta show your True Colors then that's alright" Nathan joined in.

"Hey, hey. Shut up." Pickles pointed a finger at the taller man.

"She was a haht piece of ass."

"She's so Unusual, though."

Charles cracked, Skwisgaar made an 'aayyyeee' noise and went to high five the manager, who graciously complied.

"Okey, fuck you guys."

He started strumming and cleared his throat.

"Oh, hey, wait a second, I gahtta make this a little sweeter."

Being bold and drunk, he sauntered over to Charles, who suddenly became very serious, the others were still laughing.

"I gahtta.. add somethin'" he flicked his hips from side to side and straddled the older man, Skwisgaar oohed and continued laughing, Nathan quieted down a little, a sorry look on his face.

"I jehst need.."

He leant forward, Charles pushed his head back so as to distance himself, Pickles worked his dexterous fingers on his tie. Before the moment could get any more intimate, he whipped it off from around his neck and went to work fastening it around his head. He climbed off of him and returned to where he was standing, picking up the guitar again. If nothing else, Pickles knew how to put on a show, it was his job for the better part of fifteen years, after all.

"Daht was revenge fer the sneaky cards." He finished fastening the tie.

"Way more metal, right? Okey here goes."

He picked the strings on his guitar, before deciding he only had enough knowledge of the song to strum the accompanying cords, he wiped his brow and started again, swinging his hip to the tempo.

_Ahhhhll through 'de night _

He raised his eyebrows at his friends, taking a drag from the cigarette that drooped from his lip.

_Ahhhh'll be awake, and ah'll be wit' you _

Skwisgaar clapped his hands in a slow beat.

_Ahhhhll through the night _

He jerked his guitar in a sarcastic gesture of angst.

_This precious time when time is new…_

He dragged again and looked as if he'd forgotten the words._  
_

_Oh.. _

He moaned suggestively, still dripping cynicism, hitting the strings on the guitar way harder than he needed to.

_Ahnd aaahhall through the night today… _

_Knowin' dat we feel thuuuh same, without sayin' _

He was really getting into it as the others looked on, Skwisgaar was getting the most out of it, occasionally gurgling along with the drummer as he reached the chorus.

_We gaht no past! We cahn't reach back!_

"It's _won't_ reach back" Charles added.

_Keep with me forward all through 'de night!_

Pickles made eyes at the lawyer, who sank back in his chair a little, regretting speaking out.

_Ahnd once we start the meter clicks! _

He stepped it up a little, yelling out the words off tune. When he came to the next verse he decided to show off his talent, taking a serious breath he closed his eyes.

_Ahhll through the night …  
A stray cat's crying, so stray cat sings back  
Ahll through the night,  
They have forgotten what by day 'dey lack,  
Oh, under 'dose white street lamps,  
There's a little chance 'dey may see… _

At the end of the verse he strummed his guitar hard, enough so that the strings clashed, he leant back for emphasis, swirling his dreads around, Charles' tie fell to the floor.

"I think that's enough" Nathan scoffed, blushing, but restraining his laughter. Skwisgaar was in stitches. Charles was smiling, though reserved. He'd been tapping along on his glass, revealing that he knew the words as well as any of them.

"Oh thank Gahd." Pickles unstrapped the Explorer and almost dropped it. Skwisgaar barked at him and Pickles smiled sheepishly in return.

"See, 'dat wasn't so bahd. You guys couldn'tah done 'dat song better 'en me."

"I will gives you 'dat. I won'ts ever plays dat songs better dan you, Pickle, you can haves 'dat over me if you want."

He laughed again before devolving into a coughing fit.

"De hard part's gahnna be the drugs."

He bent and retrieved Charles' tie, which he slipped over his head before the lawyer could protest. _  
_

"If I gaht the rest of 'de night then I'm gonna get fucked up if you don't mind me."

He passed the guitar to its owner and shuffled over to his knapsack.

"Man. That was brutal. On my ears, I mean. I don't think I'll ever look at you the same, man."

Nathan glanced at Pickles, who was face deep in his bag, and only shrugged.

"That was quite the –ah, rendition"

Charles for one looked genuinely impressed. When the redhead let himself sing properly, his accented tones captured him as well as any singer he'd ever auditioned.

"Maybe Pickles should be singing on the record, that is, if you crack under the pressure Nathan."

"Not if we're doing death metal. That's a fucken insult."

He grinned and slugged his new drink.

"You wants one more befores you head off Charlie?"

Skwisgaar eyed the lawyer, knowing without saying that their manager would soon want to wrap the night up.

"If you insist. I might have to catch a taxi home."

"Nooo you cans stay here Charlie!"

He poured brandy into a glass and handed it to Nathan, who passed it on.

"No, really. I think it would be better if I went home."

"Alrights, alrights! We's calls you a cab." Skwisgaar dropped his voice on the last note in a sarcastic retort.

"Okey guys, if this ahbstinance thing starts tomahrrow, 'den I'm gahnna go have another smoke. Enjoy getting' dat off de carpet by the way."

He nodded his head at the cigarette butt, smouldering on the white carpet where he'd just been singing. Skwisgaar's face dropped and he sprawled onto the floor to grab it before it could do any further damage.

Pickles left the three of them inside and shut the door behind him. Nathan thought he heard him mutter 'douchebags' on his way out.

"So.. Look, guys. You have the weekend for yourselves, and then I suggest you start practicing for this gig you have, in New York."

Charles was able to keep his voice steady, but his hair was a little ruffled, his tie completely forgotten.

"Oh, yeah. What the fuck are we going to play?"

Nathan stiffened.

"Look. You don't have to write anything, but you should strategically choose what you cover. Maybe you could do some songs from your previous projects, Skwisgaar?"

"Dey'd never let me have de rights to dem."

"Well, not unless you pay them, at least." Charles continued.

"Just let me know what you want to play and I will take care of it."

"Ohhoh," The blonde grinned.

"Alrights 'den."

"You should also, ah, consider playing _Bleeder Problems_. The song you and Nathan recorded. I know it was an accidental release, but it would cause some well needed hype for you guys."

The musicians nodded in solemn agreement. Charles finished his drink in a gulp and stood slowly, testing himself.

"It really is getting on, I should be heading home."

The sliding door opened and Pickles reappeared.

"Ohh, yer leavin'?"

Skwisgaar confirmed the news and Pickles pouted, not catching himself.

"Well 'den I should prahbably go too. We cen share a cahb. Right, dood?" Charles lifted his head.

"Hmm? Sorry I was, ah, lost in thought."

He went to straighten his tie, and found it to be missing.

"Oh, ah.." Pickles started but Nathan intervened.

"I'm goin' to bed." The black haired singer stood, drunk and inexplicably broody. The rest of them said their goodnights and Nathan swayed his way into the hall and out of sight.

"Well I thinks we hads fun. I will calls you tomorrow Pickle, set up some practice times, ja?"

Pickles couldn't decide if he was hearing things or if the Scandinavian had indeed butchered his name.

"Ah, yeh, sure." He slung his bag over his shoulder.

"It was real great getting' to hang out wit' you guys a bit."

He nodded towards his host and turned to the elevator.

"Comin' Lahyer?"

He grinned at Charles, the whirring of the elevator started up as he pressed the going down button.

"Yes. I should head off for the night."

He extended a hand to Skwisgaar who made an 'o' with his mouth and shook it, mocking his stringency.

"I'll have quite a lot of work to do over the weekend, so, ah, don't expect to see me. Any of you. Pickles"

"Yeh?" He'd stepped backward into the elevator.

"I'll need my tie back."

"Well comman' get it."

The redhead smashed the close-door button and Charles dashed forward.

"I'lls calls you a cab!" Skwisgaar yelled after the pair as the door closed, narrowly missing the Lawyer's briefcase.

In the elevator Pickles leaned on the bannister.

"Oh, man. 'Dat went quickly."

"My tie, Pickles."

Charles extended his hand. Pickles toyed with the idea of fucking with him, but decided it was too much trouble and carelessly unknotted the material, passing it over. Charles expertly wound it around the collar of his shirt.

They stood in silence for a moment and Pickles rolled another joint. Charles watched the numbers on the lift tick by.

"You wanna hit 'dis with me outside? The taxi's gahnna be, oh, maybe five minutes. We gaht time."

"No, thank you." Charles had no trouble dismissing the request.

"Well suit yerself." He lit it up in the elevator and Charles frowned at him.

"You can't smoke in here."

"Hey cahlm down, suit. It's only like, five steps to the door ahn the other side."

The doors opened as if to illustrate his point. Charles didn't have time to count the steps before Pickles strode ahead to the door, looking back over his shoulder at the lawyer. Charles cleared his throat and started forward, still disapproving.

They didn't have long to wait, within a minute two cabs rounded the corner. Pickles scowled.

"Ah 'dat bastard has way too much money. Separate cabs. Peh."

"I always take my own cab. I don't – ah… Like people knowing where I live."

"Silverlake, right?"

"How'd you – "

"You told me 'dat, ya idiot."

Charles analyzed the legitimacy of his claim as Pickles waived the cabs down.

"Well, my residential address, at least, remains private."

"Yeh, yeh. Hey, look."

The drummer stepped towards him, in the shadow of the building the pair were hidden from plain sight, and the street was bare. Charles looked from the ground and back to Pickles, who was now uncomfortably close to him.

"If you haddah lost 'dat bed… You'd be smokin' this if ya liked it or naht."

"But I didn't – "

"Shh."

Pickles pressed a gloved finger to the manager's lips. Charles let his briefcase drop to the ground. As the front man stepped closer, invading his space more than he cared for.

"Jehst take a shahtgun. 'Dis is my last smoke fer a week. Think ahf it as a parting gift."

Before Charles could protest, Pickles had inhaled a lungful of smoke, dropping the rolled substance to the ground. He crushed it under his heel, green eyes sparkling dangerously up at him.

On his tiptoes he pressed his face close, his dreads tickled the taller man's forehead. He cupped one pale hand to Charles' face. Charles, not having been initiated into the art of sharing smoke, stood rigid, his hands at his sides.

When he failed to move Pickles rolled his eyes and leant in, pressing his lips to his managers.

Charles widened his eyes, unable to pull away. Pickles rolled his tongue forward, parting the lawyer's lips before breathing the drug into his lungs.

Short of breath, his new manager inhaled, warm breath coating his throat, and for a brief moment, his tongue slicked against the drummers lip, and Pickles grabbed for his tie. They remained that way for only a split second, but the details etched themselves on both of their drunk memories.

As soon as it began, it was over.

Pickles dropped back down to his usual height. Their eyes remained fixed for an extra moment. Charles was stunned, unable to compute, Pickles' eyes were shining with mischief. Charles exhaled what was left of the smoke and the streets were silent but for his breath, particles dancing between them in an ethereal midnight cloud.

A second later the front taxi honked it's horn, and Pickles turned away. Charles looked down and watched his silky tie trail through the artisan fingers of the shorter man as he pulled away. Pickles could only manage a grin as he turned back.

"See ya later."

He scampered away and was gone. Charles could only stand to move once the taxi pulled away from the curb.

His next instinct was to look around. The streets remained empty.

He slowly brought his tie to his lips and pressed it against them, stoically wiping the lingering saliva of his client from his face.

He fixed his glasses and picked up his briefcase, shaking his head before moving forward into the streetlight.


	9. When Everything Feels Like the Movies

**Okay so.. Chapter (backdoor sluts) 9 already! **

**Y'all like Pickle too much! I better put some effort into the others (I mean, come on! How's my Skwisgaar? I can just imagine him gurgling away and laughing while everyone else is hiding their respective boners). Heh. **

**I meant to make a Pickles/Nathan thing… Which I can hopefully squeeze in… Whatever, this chapter's gonna have to be a bit boring I think since we're still building Magnus and poor little Toki. I'll see how much I can write before breakfast, which means a sober(town USA) chapter.**

**Oh also on Charles being Colbert – yes. Last night I had that conversation with one of my friends for like 15 minutes. Must have translated well!**

**Oh! Oh! I say oh a lot. Oh, so I'm thinking about introducing chapter summaries, so it's easier to read for the masses. I KNOW WHAT YOU GUYS SKIM CHAPTERS FOORRR! So I'll probably do that once this is finished.**

* * *

Only one full day separated Toki from his first day of American college. It was unusually warm for early spring, so he sat himself in the courtyard outside his quarter building, his guitar and sandwich accompanying him.

The tree that loomed above him was totally bare, even when he squinted he couldn't make out any budding flowers. When the late afternoon wind caught him it rattled right through and caused him to shiver a little when it blew up under his shirt.

The sun was still well up, but shadows on the ground were steadily getting longer, and Toki could discern a hint of pink on the horizon, where the sky was starting to change color in the wake of night.

He let out an audible sigh and picked at the wrapping on his sandwich. All in all the Norwegian had stuck to himself, and had it not been for his chance meeting with Anthony, he wouldn't really know anyone else.

It was very difficult, he discovered, to make friends with the other students. Since the entire dorm was international, he found it frustrating trying to understand any one of the 50 shades of English that spread around campus.

Toki chewed the corner off his sandwich, disgruntled. He hated his country right then, the disadvantage in language skills was certainly affecting his everyday life, and now that he had made it, he didn't see he would have a need for Norwegian ever again.

He decided he wasn't hungry, and put down his sandwich in favor of his guitar. Capturing the mood of the afternoon he picked at the strings, focusing in on Audioslave's _Doesn't Remind Me_, which he absentmindedly strummed without effort.

The last week had been somewhat cathartic for the young guitarist.

He'd been shy of the city at first, until Anthony had accompanied him to Times Square. The next day he'd tried to get back there himself, but he got so excited that he took the subway the wrong direction and ended up lost in China town.

After that adventure he tended to stay around the campus, only venturing a little beyond whatever was familiar territory.

Otherwise he found childish joy in other things, peering around corners when he heard music, discovering everyone else's talents, often he would walk through the campus, mapping the classrooms in his head, picking out his favorite trees and buildings, not a sensible thought in his brain.

He hummed along to his fretting as he approached the chorus, then heard twigs snapping behind him. Anthony was walking his way, and Toki instantly brightened, waving his hand unnecessarily hard over his head.

Anthony's expression did not change. He was smiling just a little, his eyes slanted in wake of his high full cheeks.

"There's a party on tonight, you know?" He gracefully stepped up onto the wooden table, perching on it beside the Norwegian, his voice soft as usual.

"Ams what?"

"A party – like a get together for the international students. Do you want to go?"

"A party…" He struggled to find context.

"Where does it be?"

Anthony shrugged.

"In the rec room, half of us aren't 21, and it's not a big thing anyway." He waved his hand and turned to walk away.

"No I wants to go! I always like de getstogethers!" He squeaked.

"Cool" Anthony smiled over his shoulder. Toki was eager for conversation, but Anthony continued away, back to his usual group of friends. He turned back, forgetting to mention;

"It says to bring a bottle, but I know there will be plenty there, so don't worry about it." He swiveled back, his light caramel hair flicking around in a perfect bob.

Toki strummed his guitar and smiled. The air was growing colder, and after practicing a few scales he packed it in, making his way through the buzzing rec room before retreating to his room.

* * *

He was at least grateful that he didn't have far to go to attend. Through the floor he could hear the thump of music, and even the odd burst of laughter or elevated sentence.

Not having much in the way of clothes, he picked his best pair of jeans from the floor, a tight cut that stretched over his muscular calves all the way to his ankles, his favorite boots, and a very worn, but rugged tank top.

The night was cool, but still a lot warmer than its predecessors, to Toki the temperature was perfect singlet weather.

He combed his hair in the mirror and willed it to texturize with his hands. The silky tresses always fell back in line, so he wet his hands under the tap and scrunched at his roots. This caused the messy look to stay, at least for a short while, so he grabbed his wallet and made his way downstairs.

The music got louder and Toki couldn't help but feel excited. A couple sat on the stairs, talking in hushed, moody tones. Past them a group of three girls leant against the wall, their eyes turned his way as he passed them. He gave them a friendly smile and continued forward, seeking out his friend. At the other end of the room, the couches had been moved against the wall. He recognized the few people sitting here from the dorms, and in the center was Anthony. He'd seen Toki first and was already inching his way past the coffee table to greet him.

"Glad you made it." His signature wry grin spread across his face.

"Can we get you a drink?"

"No thanks, I'm not thirsty." Toki smiled innocently. Anthony's eyes slitted further.

"You don't drink because you're thirsty."

"Whats do you mean?"

"I mean…"

He reached down to the table and picked up a can. The label read 'Bundaberg Rum', undoubtedly one of the Australian students had brought it with them.

"It's alcohol, Toki. You've… Never been drunk before?"

He didn't understand the concept. The look he gave his friend was enough for him to understand.

"Look, drink this, yeah? And don't mind if you don't like it, you're not really supposed to. Drink this, and…"

He looked back at the table, littered with bottles, and plucked a mostly full bottle of Malibu from the spread.

"And some of this one, and then tell me how you feel, yeah?"

He clapped Toki on the back.

"Okays, ahh, cheers?"

Hoping he'd used the phrase correctly, he lifted his can. Anthony, clutching a plastic cup full of wine, toasted him, and they drank.

The taste wasn't awful, if he had to, he'd describe it as unusual. The liquid appeared to have a burning after taste that upset his stomach. He swallowed twice and exhaled the mild vapor, feeling better once the second of sickness had passed.

The next hour was a blur, Anthony had introduced him to a couple of his friends, the Australian and his girlfriend, also a student, from Iceland.

From the small conversation he gathered from the pair, the American students, just beginning something they called 'O-week' were joining them for the night. Once Toki fully understood what this meant, his eyes lit up with excitement.

A chance to meet real _American_ people. He followed the pair around for a while, shaking hands with whomever they come across. As the music got louder he had to yell his introduction at whomever he was addressing.

Without catching the names of anyone, he joined the group on the dance floor. Utterly overstimulated he chugged from the glass bottle Anthony had given him. This drink he found much more to his liking, sickeningly sweet, enough to drown out the burn as he drank. It became less and less noticeable as he drank it, and without realizing, half the bottle was gone in the space of 15 minutes.

When he spoke to girls they appeared to take interest in him, but would then spiral away back to their friends or onto someone else, he couldn't understand why no one stayed long enough to have a conversation with him, but dancing amongst them, the language was completely different.

He'd taken his shirt off, following a couple of boys who had already decided to do the same in the heat of bodies.

Once this happened he noticed more eyes on him. The expressions American girls pulled were scary. They looked at him like he was a meal, up and down, before turning away to their friends. After that, he would hardly catch them looking again.

The exceptions to this rule were bold, and once Toki had held their gaze they slinked over to him, dancing uncomfortably close to him. He eventually pulled himself out for the crowd and made his way outside, seeking air.

He smiled at those gawking at him outside the door and slipped around the corner. From his exploring he knew there was a tap on the side of the building, and he turned it to splash his face.

He drank from it and stood back up, using his wet hands to puff his hair back up. He spied Anthony leaning on the window when he rounded the corner again, and he gratefully caught his attention.

"Anthony! Oh, I losts my shirt."

He looked down at his own chest and pouted. Anthony looked him up and down, amused. He shook his head.

"I don't think that's the wisest move in this crowd."

"Yeah, you takes your shirt off in a crowd and 'den it's gone."

Anthony chuckled, Toki didn't pick up the joke.

"You want a fag, man?"

His icy eyes almost dared him, but to what he couldn't place.

"Ans.. fhag?"

He struggled to think of a relative word that might clue him in to its meaning.

"A cigarette. Look, here."

He produced one for himself and one for his friend, noticing as it exchanged hands the bottle in Toki's left hand.

"How far are you on the Malibu?"

He grinned. Toki lifted the bottle over his head in a triumphant impulse.

"I ffffinished iiit!"

He giggled manically, and Anthony's face faltered.

"Oh, god. Toki that's a lot, you know. It's gonna catch up to you."

The wonky brunette didn't even bother to recognize what he was trying to say, the bottle still raised, swaying above his head.

"Look. Give me that."

He reached up and grabbed Toki's wrist.

The Norwegian found his fingers alarmingly cold. Anthony sat the bottle on the ground and popped the cigarette between Toki's fingers.

"This is a smoke, you know…"

He made a puffing gesture and Toki recognized it, he'd seen people smoking the street, and sometimes in the movies his parents watched.

"Oh ja's I knows it!"

He mimicked the gesture with his unlit cigarette and Anthony nodded approvingly.

"Good, okay, now let me light it, yeah?"

He produced a lighter and flicked it against first his own smoke, and then Toki's.

He attempted to mimic Anthony's lighting technique, inhaling hard as the flame battered the end of it.

"Good, that's right."

He released the flame and Toki pulled back, a puff of smoke escaping his lips. He coughed.

"Just, don't force it, yeah? Breathe."

He took a drag and Toki looked down at the stick in his hand. He again, copied his friend, and found inhaling wasn't as difficult as he might have guessed.

Anthony swayed gracefully to the beat radiating from inside the building, and once Toki got the hang of it, he turned back to his group of friends.

At first, he didn't notice anything, but after his fifth drag he felt his head begin to swim.

It was like he'd drank a whole bottle of alcohol all over again, the sensation was so extreme that he had to sit down.

He kept his composure as well as he could and slinked to the concrete.

The song playing was a dancey, upbeat version of Sam Barber's Adiago for Strings. He liked the tune, and he was able to hum along to it, staring up at the murky sky. He blurrily mused over how he got to be there, dragging on his cigarette.

Sitting distracted he didn't notice Anthony return indoors, and a couple of girls took the groups place on the well-lit wall. In some part of his head he heard them giggling and talking, he couldn't even imagine that it was directed at him. Lost somewhere in the gloomy sky he only focused on reality when one girl squatted down in front of him.

"Heyy aren't you cold out here without a shirt?"

Her strong American accent caused him to perk up.

"Name's Toki Wartooth.."

He managed to gurgle, the girl giggled at her friend and made a face.

"Oh okay, Toki, you wanna come inside with me?"

Her hand rested on his well-muscled forearm, squeezing just a little, he heard her friend giggle again.

"Yeahs I cans come inside…"

He let his lit cigarette fall from his hand, supporting himself on the wall as he stood, the girl led him by the hand to the heavy conservatorium door.

Music, lights, stares, stairs.

He couldn't tell what was happening.

The girl he was following stopped when the party was out of their line of sight, pressing him against the wall. Her lips were suddenly on his.

When he focused on her she appeared to be eyeing him off. He couldn't understand the emotion in her glances, but accepted her advances as she kissed him again.

All of this was new to him, he didn't even catch her name, but he was quickly pulled into an empty auditorium, and she pushed him across the back of a grand piano.

The keys sounded off tune as she climbed up over them to join him on top of it, her fingers running fervently down his sides.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, his conscious reminded him of the guilt he should be feeling. That type of behavior was especially not allowed in his household.

He'd never been involved in it before, though he knew enough about it from the instances when he'd walked in on his parents in the act.

The girl straddled his hips, and these warnings fell away from him.

He sank back, giving in to the warm sensation. The girl's hands traced down the flat of his stomach, pressing on the bumps of muscle her fingertips found there, slowly finding the goal of his waistline.

Toki's head was swimming. Why did the feeling seem to accelerate?

Without even realizing it, his hips pressed upward in the universal signal of encouragement.

"Oooh Toki, you're so toned!"

He didn't understand her use of the word, and the ceiling stun hypnotically before his eyes.

"Hva er det du snakker om…" He mumbled.

"What?"

She expertly unhinged his belt, and then his pants.

"Ohhh"

She cooed, and Toki jumped as she slid her hand over his erection. No one had ever touched him like that before.

"Hva er det du gjør?"

He craned his neck to look at her, her eyes cast downward, long, blonde hair cascading over her sickly thin shoulders.

Somewhere in his mind he heard a swimming commotion, maybe the door opened, the weight on his hips shifted, and then it was gone. When the sound of voices faded he opened his eyes.

Anthony was seated beside him on the liquored wood, a glass of water in hand.

Toki smiled, confused, but glad to see his friend. The lighter haired boy shook his head. The Norwegian's face was flushed.

Toki propped himself up on an elbow, and his friend cast his eyes down over his form. He was naked from the waist up; his pants were undone and shifted down to the top of his thighs.

Remaining was his underwear, the black cotton clung tightly to the taught muscle of his hips, and his cock strained hard against them. He couldn't begin to decide what to make of it.

Anthony smiled his twisted smile down at him, his head just a little cocked to the side.

"An'tany?"

He returned the smile back at him as best he could, hiccupping. Anthony reached over and pushed the palm on his hand on Toki's chest, just under his ribs.

"You should watch out for yourself better. American girls can be more persuasive than you're ready for."

He shifted his body weight and Toki winced, the Englishman seemed to lean with considerable pressure.

"It's.. Hurtings… Me… 'gjør vondt!"

Anthony kept smiling, his cold violet eyes staring right into Tokis. His hand slowly slid downwards, over the muscle of Toki's stomach, and to his waistline.

"They tend to do things to you."

At this remark Anthony extended a finger, slowly, harshly running it down the length of Toki's erection. Toki sucked in a breath, wincing when his friend's fingernail dug in over the ridge of the head of it.

"That you might not want."

His grin extended. He grabbed the fabric on the inside of his zipper and pulled upward, his jeans slid back to their proper positioning.

His nimble fingers fastened the zip, and then the buttons, one, two, three, one handed.

"Why's it.. It just was so… Jeg ønsket å føle henne så dårlig…"

In his inebriated state he didn't even recognize if he was translating for himself or not. Anthony just laughed.

"Her… Girls are fickle, they don't know what they're doing. Mindless 'fun' is no fun at all."

He stood, and extended a hand to his friend. Toki didn't grasp any of what he was saying, and took the offered hand up.

On the stairs Toki stumbled, retching. Anthony stooped to watch, making sure the Norwegian held it in.

"It hurts. It feels so bad. Oh..."

He coughed and screwed his eyes shut.

"You're going to bed. You'll be alright when you wake up."

"Jeg er red… You promise?"

"Yes, I do. It's alright."

Wobbling, Anthony supported him, and together they made their way to Toki's room.

* * *

The sun wasn't even up when Pickles woke up.

The lack of light wasn't the first thing he noticed was wrong with the day, his splitting hangover commanded him up and into his kitchen, seeking to drink his weight in water. In only his underwear he stumbled onto the tiles and across the room to the sink.

He twisted the tap and drank deeply from his hand under the icy stream. He pulled back only when his teeth hurt from the temperature.

Out of breath, he took a deep inhale, only to be met with a sharp pain in his ribcage. He spluttered, coughing, the ramifications of smoking so much the night before catching up to him along with his memories.

"Oh-hoh… Oh man."

He coughed and spoke to himself, shaking his head. He scratched at his scalp under his dreads. He pulled a face when his fingers contacted on the sticky strands. He'd forgotten how much product was in his hair. He took a couple of steady breaths to make sure he wasn't dying, and leant forward on the edge of the sink, staring out of the window above it.

Pickles lived on a hill, and from the window he could see the ever bright skyline of The Valley. He focused past his reflection and onto the tiny glinting buildings, before shifting his vision closer to look at himself.

He ran a finger under his waterline, rubbing away the smudged mascara that lay there. His eyes lined up with the dotted, glowing buildings in the valley, each one like a freckle across cheeks and nose. He turned away, pinching his temples, then swiveled his head to spit in the sink. He missed, and the caramel mucus rolled down the front of the basin cabinet.

Must have been a fun night, he thought.

He scratched his stomach and walked barefoot to the lounge, where he plopped onto the couch.

Reaching into the drawer beside him he produced a tiny zip locked bag. He rubbed the grainy powder inside it between his fingers before pulling the seal open.

He paused then, and it hit him. No drugs. No drugs and – and Charles. _Oh God, Charles._

He quickly resealed the bag and gripped the armrest of his sofa as his memory lurched back together.

It was crystal clear. He could see himself lean in… They'd kissed, hadn't they?

His hand shot to his lips and he dabbed there carefully.

In an instant he dove back into the drawer beside him, searching frantically for his contact book.

What the fuck was he thinking? He thought he'd left that part of himself to die with Snakes N' Barrels. The last thing he wanted was… Oh God, the lawyer.

He found what he was looking for and reached across for the phone.

He picked it up and slammed it down again, wide eyed. He whirled around to find a clock. 5 am. What was he thinking.

"Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck!"

He analyzed his options.

Really, he just wanted to escape from being taunted, that and being ashamed of himself.

He couldn't help his desires. He'd have sporadic arguments with himself over it. He couldn't even admit it in coherent thought.

He'd get to the precipice of it before, and he'd always find an excuse not to think further. Such was the case that morning.

He didn't NOT like women, that was a big point.

He thought they were beautiful. He would still climb over his own mother for a night with a handful of sexy groupies.

They looked good on his arm, their clothes looked good on his floor, and occasionally on him.

That wasn't… _Gay_. At the most, he identified as bicurious.

It was all about the context. Pulling a man down to the same dirty level he was already on, taking hold of power usually reserved for their mistresses… Being taken up in someone's strong arms…

He shook his head. One half of him was sick just thinking about it. _In the moment_ it was different. He'd sworn to stop himself, but the lawyer had proven too tempting.

He picked up the phone again.

"Hello?" Charles answered so quickly that the redhead stuttered.

"Oh, ah, hey, hey Charles."

"Is that, Pickles?"

"Pickles, yeh."

There was a pause. He curled the cord of the phone around his fingers.

"I told you ah, I'm very busy this weekend. I have some work to catch up on for Crystal Mountain Records, so I can, ah – afford to take the week off for the show."

"Yeh. I'm sahrry n' all I jest wanted t' ask about last night."

Another pause.

"What's bothering you?" His voice was chillingly bland.

"Well eh, I mean, outside, at Skwisgaars.. I – "

"Oh, yeah. Don't do that again."

The redhead froze, squinting worriedly as he frantically tried to think of something to say, his cheeks reddening.

"We have routine drug tests at the record building. If I couldn't have gotten out of it I might have, ah, lost my job."

"Oh.. Yeh… Right…"

He frowned, wondering if the lawyer had even thought the real issue.

"I'm sahrry that I gaht all up in yer personal space like 'dat. It wasn't anythin' I mean, it wasn't –"

"It wasn't very professional." Charles intervined. Pickles detected a hint of annoyance in his voice, and he felt obliged to shut the fuck up.

"Right. Okey, so we're cool 'den?"

"Yes, we're cool. Now is there anything else?"

"Err… Nope, no, just eh, have a good week! I mean, we'll miss ya. I know I will."

He bit his lip, unsure of just how much he could get away with. When Charles spoke again he sounded tired, maybe even personable.

"I'll miss you boys too."

He paused, and Pickles opened his mouth to speak.

"Good day."

The dial tone sounded.

Shit. That wasn't helpful at all.

Was he just… Avoiding it? Or did he genuinely not notice when he'd kissed him?

He rubbed his lip. He could have sworn he'd kissed back…

Genuine confusion drove away his displeasure.

He reached for his cigarettes, remembered his vow, and decided to return to bed.

There was only one way to find out if Charlie had really missed the connection. Next week would be interesting.

* * *

The day of the trip rolled around pretty quickly.

The flight was at a reasonable hour, per the boys request, and Skwisgaar and Nathan stood outside the Swede's apartment with their luggage.

"Hey Skwisgaar… Uhh"

"Ja?"

The blonde was combing his fingers through his hair.

"Do you really need, like, all that luggage? It's only a week."

"Ohoh, Nathans. You are sos ignorant to de lifes of a rock star"

He chuckled and sat down on the largest suitcase, of which there were three.

Nathan glanced over. The Swede's carry-on luggage was full to bursting.

He had stuffed it with whatever didn't fit in his regular suitcase. Nathan was sure he didn't own as many clothes as Skwisgaar was bringing for the affair.

"I has four pairs of shoes, you knows, one for on de stage, one for events, like ifs we go to a party or somethingks, casual shoes, comfortable shoes… Oh! I didn't bring flip flops."

He looked discouragingly down at the pavement. Nathan rolled his eyes.

"I just have these. On my feet."

He lifted his boots for emphasis.

"_Dose? _You can'ts wear dem on stage Nat'an. Thems so dirty." Skwisgaar chuckled patronizingly.

Nathan stared down at his shoes, and finding nothing wrong he furrowed his brow and stared into the street. He had only a backpack with him. Another shirt, underwear, that's all he needed.

"Charlie is usually early, but here we ams. Late."

The Swede folded his arms and blew a tuft of hair off his face.

"He said he was on his way. He'd probably be here by now if you didn't ask him to get a limo."

He rumbled, his tone was agitated. Skwisgaar took no notice.

"He shouldsa got it right anyway, he wants all of my business then he shouldsa handles it propskerly!"

"Yeah… Sure"

The pair stood in silence for a minute, Skwisgaar asked Nathan if he had any cigarettes, he didn't, so the Swede huffed. Nathan could sense a bad mood forming.

After another minute a limo smoothly pulled up to the curb.

The back door swung open to reveal Charles, crouching by it in the back seat, as dignified as ever.

""We're late. Get in."

He sounded preoccupied. Nathan hastily picked up his bag and Skwisgaar juggled his two smallest bags, wheeling the third over, as it was too heavy to lift off the ground.

Their driver got out to help him load his stuff and Nathan ducked to squeeze in through the door.

He'd never been in a limo before.

The inside was pretty, the windows extended the extra length of the car, giving him a 360 degree view of the road. The seats were a matte soft leather.

Charles looked right at home, leaning against the cushioned armrest on the back.

Pickles, in contrast on the other side, was slumped in his seat, a bottle of water in his hand. He was taking sips pretty quickly. Nathan decided not to comment.

Skwisgaar joined them after a moment and made an 'ahhh' noise as he relaxed into his seat opposite Nathan.

"Magnus will meet us in New York."

Charles glanced at his watch. Their driver hopped in. Nathan glanced at Skwisgaar as Charles piped up again.

"It's good to see you boys again. I'm sorry for being ah, out of contact in the last week."

Nathan and Skwisgaar accepted his excuse via dismissive grunts. Pickles remained silent, sipping his water.

"The itinerary is here. I didn't print copies for you because I assumed you ah, wouldn't read them." The cab was quiet.

"As I thought. Very well. We're departing at 8pm. We should arrive there at 4am, east coast time."

"Brutal." Nathan whispered behind his hand to Skwisgaar.

"Tonight you can all just kick back, we don't have any obligations until tomorrow afternoon. It's Tuesday, the show is on Saturday night. Friday afternoon we have a technical rehearsal, and we have a full practice Saturday morning. We aren't leaving until Monday. I booked the extra time ahead because Thursday is, ah, Valentines day. I thought you might want to take the day to explore."

More silence. Pickles crossed his arms tighter and slunk down another inch in his seat.

He pieced together what he was seeing. Pickles had obviously kept to his word on not abusing various substances.

Without so much as a cigarette for a week he must have already been through hell. His brow was knotted in a permanent grimace, the hand he used to hold his water bottled drummed rhythmically against it to the tune of some unknown, angry song.

He turned his head to the lawyer. His body language was more rigid than usual. Instead of facing straight ahead he had turned subtly away from the drummer towards the window, staring out of it.

He decided Charles had been with Pickles for a couple of hours already, and was probably sick of his attitude.

Oh well, by his calculation he would be allowed to relapse at midnight. He wondered if that was the best thing for him. He was grouchy, but the drummer was obviously over the worst of it, He even looked healthier, his face a little fuller.

Skwisgaar was as Nathan had always known him, legs stretched out, guitar in hand, fretting with his eyes closed.

Magnus had flown back in for a practice and flown out again the previous evening, at Charles' expense, to continue whatever work he was doing. Whatever.

He hadn't even bothered to ask his high school friend what he was up to these days.

Last he knew he worked part time as an assistant in some law-related institution. He was sure there was another word for it, but he couldn't find enough fucks to put towards remembering what it was.

With Skwisgaar absorbed in his guitar and the others appearing unsociable, the ride to the airport was quiet. Half way there Skwisgaar knocked on the glass in front of them and asked the driver to turn the radio on.

As he turned up the volume Skwisgaar instantly caught the sound of a riff he'd written himself, and laughed aloud as he began to pluck along to the bridge of Fuckface Academy's _Cheap Imitation. _

When they pulled up to the loading area of the airport Pickles pulled away from his corner and roughly opened the door, marching towards the building, scowling. Charles started after him, stopping with one foot out of the limo.

"Pickles. There's still another car coming with the gear."

Pickles whirled around.

"So, yer 'de manager, you deal with it!"

He flicked back around.

"Pickles…"

"WHAT?"

He turned again, his fists balling at his sides.

"You need your reference number to check in."

He pulled a slim envelope from his breast pocket, cocking it in the air. Pickles huffed, pausing for a second before stomping back over, he plucked the paper from the lawyer's hand, and stormed away again.

Charles sighed, a little exasperated, and turned around to the rest of the band.

"So, ah, here are your… Boarding passes."

He produced a further pair of envelopes, handing them to the musicians.

"You may move around the airport as you please, but we don't have much time. I expect you to be checked in and at the first class lounge in an hour."

The van carrying their gear pulled up behind them, Charles turned his head to the back window when the horn sounded.

"Go. Go check in. Now. Go."

He moved away from the door frame and gestured for them to leave. Nathan glanced at Skwisgaar and took the lead. He turned around when he got out, addressing the lawyer on a whim.

"Hey don't worry about Pickles, I mean he's just fucked up because he's not on drugs, he's just a bit stressed out and not mad at any of us, I think. I think that's why."

Charles peered at him over his shoulder, his expression made Nathan feel crazy for saying anything at all.

"Well. Ah. Whatever the case, I'll deal with it after I've got our gear together. – Skwisgaar!"

He called after the blonde, who turned towards them.

"You can't take your guitar onto the plane like that."

"Pfft. Watches me."

He rolled his eyes and turned back. Charles pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Okay, see you on the plane I guess." Nathan tried to smile, effectively grimacing awkwardly at his manager, before turning away.

He could hear Charles instructing his hired help as he entered the building, and then his voice faded away.

Nathan, unlike the others, had brought his carry-on luggage with him.

The tiny suitcase looked ridiculous against his huge dark frame, but being oblivious to this he marched through the airport, his neutral scowly face causing people to look over their shoulders at him.

He picked up his ticket and made his way through to the terminals. Having a half hour to go he spied a bar and decided he'd be more comfortable there than the first class lounge.

Walking closer he spotted a familiar mop of red hair, and he almost changed his mind. He continued on his path regardless and plonked himself next to the drummer.

"I thought you weren't drinking."

Pickles didn't have to look up to recognize Nathan's voice.

"It's jest soda water."

He flicked the tall glass in front of him and some bubbles dislodged and fizzed to the top.

"Oh."

The bartender addressed the singer, and he ordered a beer.

"How's the… Sobering goin' anyway?"

He really did want to relate to the drummer. Seeing him so cheerful at Skwisgaar's was endearing, but also a little worrying.

He'd felt a good connection from Pickles when they'd first met, and through his own awkwardness he'd been unable to strengthen it throughout the past weeks. A frightening thought struck him that maybe Pickles only enjoyed his company when he was sober.

His beer arrived and he poked his finger into the foam that overflowed from the top.

"Yeah. Well. I did it. 'Dat's all."

Nathan took a moment to look at the redheads arms. His signature gloves were gone, in their place a pair of blue sweat bands. Only his left arm still looked a little pot marked. The flesh an inch below his wrist was darker, but the wound looked old. He didn't think Pickles was an addict anyway, but he had certainly used in the time he knew him.

"Don't you think, ah, being sober could be, like a good thing? Y'know for your… For your health…"

"I don' care about 'dat shit, man. I know what it's like t' be sober, an' I know a latta people say 'dey never wished 'dey gaht fucked up in the first place, but I just like it better, y'know. I just do. Soberin' up isn't the worst thing ever, bein' sober is."

Nathan sipped his drink quietly.

"That's… Fucken… Brutal, man. I mean, s'kinda fucked up a bit."

"Yeh."

He looked down at Nathans drink and exhaled loosely, letting his cheeks blow out.

"Boy 'dat's hard, watchen ye drink 'dat shit. You guys gaht yer bet's worth 'dats fer shure. I shoulda made you kiss Ahfdensen anyway for this bullshit. Fucken' douchebags."

He sounded a little aggressive, and picked it up.

"Sahrry dude, I gaht low blood pressure."

"No, we were douchebags, I didn't even know you had, uhh, so much to… Give up… on… even."

"Eh fuck it man! We're playin' a show!"

He managed out a grin and slapped his friend on the back, Nathan perked up a little.

"What do you think about all this, like, band stuff anyway?"

"It's good, I mean, it's gahnna be good fer me, do somethin' different. Might end up being a big deal."

"Yeah I'm worried about that." He sipped.

"I haven't ever done anything like this before."

Pickles chortled.

"Jest go with it man. If we fuck up, so what, you jest go back to yer old life anywhos."

They sat quietly for a moment before Nathan could word his question right.

"What's it like? Like, on stage?"

Pickles snorted, trying to laugh through the fizzy water in his mouth, causing it to leak out his nostrils.

"You mean you've never been ahn stage?!"

"No. Not like, a real one, with real people."

He had flashbacks of high school, Magnus hogging the spotlight and fucking with his tuning right before a performance.

"Jesus, Gahd. What the fuck does Skwisgaar –"

He paused and decided to rephrase.

"I mean, he must really see somethin' in ya, dood." He smiled and Nathan returned it.

"I dunno. He always wants to just pal around, we don't practice much, not together anyway, he's always pickin' his guitar… But fuck it, yeah, I'm ready. I'll just give it my best shot and those jackoffs will just have to fuckin' deal with it."

By the end of his sentence his voice had tuned into a low growl. Pickles laughed.

"Yeh, see, 'dat's the spirit. I think yer gahnna do fine." He grinned.

Nathan smiled and blood rose to his gaunt cheeks.

The PA system rang out. Neither of them payed any attention to it until Nathan's name was called.

"Oh shit!" They said together, Pickles flung a bill onto the table and Nathan grabbed his pint in both hands, skulling the rest of it with surprising determination. They got up and whirled around, looking for their terminal.

"'Dis way!" Pickles exclaimed, running off to the left.

Nathan started to follow, remembered his novelty suitcase, and turned back to retrieve it, running hard to catch up with his band mate.

When they arrived at their destination Charles was already waiting for them.

"I told you to be here on time." He was cool as ever.

"Sahrry dood, we gaht held up, right Nat'an."

"Yeah we got held up!"

Pickles wrinkled his nose, glancing sideways at Nathan, silently cursing him for his unconvincingness.

"Fine. We're all here now. Let's go. Now."

"Hey, where's Skwisgaar?"

Nathan spun in a circle but couldn't pick the blonde out of the crowd.

"He's already ah, on the flight." Charles knotted his brow.

"Oh, okay let's go then." The singer grumbled sheepishly.

Once onboard they found their seats in first class.

Charles sat a row in front of the others, Nathan took the chair closest to the left window, Pickles in the middle, and Skwisgaar beside the right window.

The rest of the cabin was empty. Nathan barely had time to pull his novel from his bag before they were approached by the flight staff.

Nathan thought they must be in trouble, but Skwisgaar, ever leading the way, ordered a beer. Charles declined, pouring over his notebook, and Pickles reluctantly shooed her away when she approached.

"What can I get for you, Mr Explosion?" Nathan looked slowly up at the flight attendant standing over him. First class was totally an alien concept.

"Uhhhuuuuh yeah, okay, I'll have whatever Skwisgaar got."

Skwisgaar, who was now plucking on his guitar, winked at him. The stewardess walked away and Nathan watched her ass go behind her.

"Woah. Guys, hey, I had no idea that this kind of awesome ever existed! I mean, I thought it was… Literally, physically impossible to get a drink before takeoff. Like there was some rule about it, y'know?"

"Yeh!" Pickles chimed in.

"Fer the lahngest time before I flew first class I always thaught you really, actually couldn't stand up when 'de seatbelt sign was on."

"Yeah like you just.. .Couldn't do it… Even if you tried it'd be like-"

"It's like how ye think you can't play a CD on yer Walkman while the plane is taxiing, but you totally can. 'Dey just hide it from ya, in first class."

The stewardess returned with their drinks, Skwisgaar put his guitar down.

"Hey thanks yous pretty lady, what ams your name? So I mays thanks you for 'dis services?"

He cocked his head to the side and flashed his eyes up at her. The girl instantly became giggley.

"Oh, heh, my name's Sophie."

"Ahhh Sooophie, dat's a beautiful name you know, you should watch out for me now, because now 'dat I know it I ams likely to wear it out, Sophie Soophie Soooophie!"

He'd deftly picked up her hand, and he now brought it to his lips, still making eyes at her.

Charles rolled his eyes and picked a news paper up off his suitcase, shielding himself with the financial section.

The plane began to roll and Nathan turned to the window beside him, pressing his nose against it, to watch as they took off.

From high in the air Los Angeles looked like a ring of dying embers, pinpricks of light dotted off in every direction and Nathan's head reeled to guess which light came from where. He had an urge to write a song, but dismissed the thought quickly, deciding there was no way he could describe his feelings for the skyline in a death metal song.

Pickles was slouched in his chair, his legs tensed against the footrest in front of him. He drummed his fingers on his armrest.

Nathan made his way over and sat on his knees in the seat in front of Pickles', peering at him over his folded arms on top of the chair.

"You know… If you go by New York time, it's like, almost midnight."

"I know, I've been countin' it down. I jest need somethin' to distract me fer a half hour."

They simultaneously looked towards Skwisgaar.

"Hey Skwisgaar"

"Mm?" He didn't look up from his intricate picking.

"Let me bahrrow yer guitar."

Pickles' tone was just a little threatening. Skwisgaar picked up on this and looked over at the pair, his fingers stumbled, so he silently switched to a more practiced tune.

"Errr no? Cause I'm practicing?"

He made a 'pfft' sound and went back to noodling. In the blink of an eye Pickles was in his face.

"I said. Give me. Yer guitar."

Without waiting for another answer he ripped the instrument from the Swede's frozen fingers and marched back to his chair.

Nathan watched Skwisgaar, waiting for him to explode, waiting for him to demand they turn the plane around, to explode, have a tantrum.

Skwisgaar pouted, Nathan winced.

"Chaaaaarles!"

The blonde knelt on his seat and pushed his face up over the back of Charles' seat.

"Charles!"

"What!"

Nathan looked along the row at his manager.

"Pickle steals my guitars from me!"

"That's ah, well I guess that's a thing…"

Satisfied that the Swede didn't genuinely need him, Charles turned back to his paper.

"You gets it froms him."

"No, Skwisgaar, I'm your manager, not your mother."

"BUTS HE TAKES IT AND IT ISN'T FAIR!"

He reached for the Explorer and Pickles shot him a very dangerous glare.

Charles put down his paper and sighed. He stood so he could address them easier.

"Look. Pickles is having a hard time with sobriety. How about you let him play for a little while, just until midnight. How's that?"

"Yeah it's only a half hour away, man. He's suffering pretty bad."

They all looked over at the redhead, who was already playing a The Doors song with surprising accuracy.

Nathan stayed and watched him play for a moment before returning to his seat.

Skwisgaar appeared to be watching Pickles play with contempt. There was no contest that the blonde was the faster guitarist, but Pickles nailed every song he chose to play, Skwisgaar could only argue that the tempo was too fast.

Nathan and Skwisgaar chatted for a while, losing themselves in a conversation about American VS Swedish confectionary. After another 10 minutes the stewardess reappeared to refresh their drinks. Charles, now marking a paper, asked for a glass.

Nathan didn't notice the giggling of their server when she spoke to Skwisgaar, and it was only when the pair left for the front cabin that he looked up. He watched Skwisgaar slap the woman on the behind, to which she squealed, and then they were gone behind the curtain.

Charles and Pickles, both absorbed, didn't notice. Nathan wished that he didn't, the breathing and hushed whispers from behind the fabric seemed to only reach his ears for the next portion of the trip.

After a lengthy silence, Pickles chimed up.

"Oooh it's time! Oh gahd yes! Hey, lady! Lady… Lady?"

Nathan watched Pickles cross the cabin towards the curtain the pair had disappeared behind. Nathan smiled a little, anticipating what he might find.

"HOLY CRAP!"

Pickles jumped back from the hallway, backing up against the nearest seat.

Nathan burst into a hearty laugh and Pickles pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Man, come on! I need her to get me a drink! Fuck! It's been like 3 minutes. I could be fully drunk by now!"

There was a commotion of giggles and the clacking sound of a service trolley.

A hand extended, a beer clutched in it, Pickles snatched it by the neck.

"I don' want fucken' beer, ya douchebag! Get me some fucken' VADKA! And some paper towels, too! I ain't touchin' the bahttle more 'en I have to since yer hands have been on it!"

There was another minute of fumbling and the stewardess handed out a second bottle to the drummer.

Skwisgaar had found a reel of paper towel, and this now flapped back and forward in his outstretched hand.

"Thank you VERY much."

He grabbed the tissue as well and returned to his seat.

"Oh gahd oh gahd yes please.. Finally, ohh.." He went for the beer first, and he made a gargling noise of release when he turned the cap and heard the _sssccchhhh_ noise of carbon dioxide release.

He put the bottle to his lips and closed his eyes, his expression turning from blissful to happily strained as he sought to empty the bottle in one giant drink.

When he did he pressed one hand to his eye, gritting his teeth as he went for the vodka bottle, opening it between his knees.

"Ahhh I don't even care 'dat I got brain freeze! Hoh maan that feels good!"

Skwisgaar reentered from the staff area at this point, grinning stupidly. Nothing looked out of place except for the back of his shirt, which was tucked into his pants.

"Ah Pickle can drink again! Oh, are you… You're not gonna mix 'dat vodska?" His face fell when he noticed this.

"Yer, no, so what?"

Pickles was swigging the bottle for as long as he could manage, pausing, and doing it again.

He was on his 4th sip before Charles appeared beside him. Nathan didn't even hear the lawyer get up. He had in his hands three glasses, and a large bottle of cola.

"Here, take one."

He handed a glass to Pickles, turning to do the same to Skwisgaar and Nathan.

"Cheers, boys."

He twisted the cap off the soda and poured some out for each of them. Pickles looked down at his, back at Ofdensen, and swallowed it whole, before pouring a full glass of vodka for himself. He passed the bottle to Skwisgaar and gave them all a giant grin.

"I'm gahnna be sooooooo wasted!"


	10. Alcoholic Kind of Mood

**Ahhh, reviews are starting to feel a bit moreish. Shit was like crack back in the day. No bueno! Mmmph!**

**Had serious block with this one, also got a bit busy, sorry… Should be easier to pick it up soon.**

**Trivia: I suffer from panic attacks, so let Toki's experience enlighten you as to what they are like.**

* * *

The airbus touched down just after 4 in the morning. Charles had suggested to the flight staff that he and the band might leave the aircraft last, so as not to cause any problems for other, pedestrian passengers.

Pickles was no doubt the catalyst for this decision. He did have a great excuse, but Charles couldn't help but feel the drummer was acting out.

He was used to dealing with high profile clients, but between Skwisgaar's demands, Pickles' actions and Nathans general ignorance he felt as if he were babysitting a monstrous child. He didn't like that part so much. He worked as hard as he did because he enjoyed it, and he was starting to feel a little out of his comfort zone.

He managed to disembark the three of them from the plane and thanked someone else's God that he'd enlisted help on the other side.

Skwisgaar was keen as ever to jump on the party wagon, and he'd been matching shot for shot with Pickles since 1 am. Skwisgaar tended to drink a lot in the time Charles had known him, but the blonde's resistance to it never seemed to change. He was a lightweight, and probably always would be. After throwing up in the plane's tiny bathroom around 2:30 he figured Pickles and Skwisgaar were probably on the same level.

Pickles, having had the week to dry out, had overestimated how much liquor he could put away, but at least he was able to hold it down.

Nathan was drunk too, but in his usual conservative manner he tried to keep charge of himself, shooting Charles a guilty look whenever Skwisgaar and Pickles caused him any trouble.

The lawyer could only shake his head and Think of England. It would be nightmare if he ever found himself flying commercial international.

They had help with their bags, but Charles still ended up with Skwisgaar's guitar slung over his back, as the Swede hadn't wanted to carry it himself through the airport. Charles waved them a maxi-taxi and he and Nathan loaded their gear.

As soon as they got everything inside, Charles signaled for the driver to leave. They'd garnered a bit of attention flitting through the airport, and when cameras started snapping he knew it was time to go.

Pickles didn't seem to like the paparazzi much either, and when he saw them coming he pulled his singlet over his head to hide his face, though his unmistakable red hair was left to flap in the wind.

"Fucken' assholes." An accented female voice addressed them from the front of the cab.

Their driver, a muscly woman with long, wavy navy blue hair, caught Charles' eyes in the rear view mirror and shook her head sympathetically. The lawyer was just happy to relax back in his seat. Skwisgaar and Pickles had been playing some kind of hand game that involved punching one another, but at the sound of a female voice, the blonde slunk to the back of the driver's chair.

"Well hellos 'dere! You ares much too pretty to be drivsking _sober_ 'dis late at night! Whens do you knocks off, maybe I could takes you for a real drive?" He gurgled in a laugh.

"Well you got the long hair of a bitch, but I don't see no tits. No thank you."

She blew him off in her heavy Yiddish accent, causing the rest of the band to jeer.

"Ohhhh she got you man!"

Nathan had smuggled a beer off the plane in his pocket, and he chose this time to produce it, raising the neck of it towards his embarrassed friend.

"'dats fucken' gross anyway, dood! Ye haven't even had a shower since 'dat girl ahn the plane! Ugh."

Pickles pulled a genuinely disgusted face. Skwisgaar, not one to be turned down, whirled around to give Pickles the finger, then continued his assault.

"Oh so you likes ladies too, huh? You know I can gets lots of 'dem. Just pick ones of dem off de streets and I can gets her!"

Charles rubbed his forehead, deciding to put a stop to this before he convinced her. He'd seen him do it before.

"Skwisgaar you can't go out. It's very late. We have to check in."

Skwisgaar turned back around to address the lawyer.

"You says we has tonights to kicks back! You says we hasn't got nothingks until tomorrow, so why it has to be always hotels and boring stuffs like that?"

Ofdensen sighed.

"Because, Skwisgaar. You have responsibilities. You can't just get drunk every night and ah, go out with lesbians."

"WHY NOTS I WANTS TO DOES IT!"

"You JEST fucked 'dat other girl, dood! What's wrang with you?!" Pickles glowered his way.

"NO'S I DIDN'T! IT WAS JUSTS A BLOWJOB! WHAT YOU THNKS I ALREADY DOES HER IN LIKE 10 MINUTES?"

Nathan chuckled and grinned at Charles.

"Well it's not like, like we were in there, I mean, maybe you could have…" Pickles snorted into laughter.

Skwisgaar turned back to the front, curling a stray lock of blue hair through his fingers.

"Likes you can't hears me through 'de walls, NA'TAN" On yelling the singer's name, he reeled around and glared at him, sneering.

"Yeah, I hear girls through the wall, but there's more than one, so…"

…

The argument abruptly ended a minute later when Skwisgaar hiccupped, then stuck his head right out the window, throwing up into the street. He impossibly managed to avoid getting any on his long blonde locks.

The drive from JFK to central Manhattan was a lengthy one, but at that witching hour the traffic didn't pose much of a problem. They arrived a little under a half hour later.

Pickles was bursting to smoke a cigarette, but having thrown his away, and Nathan and Skwisgaar being fresh out, it appeared he was out of luck. Irritated, he stood by and watched as the others unloaded their gear.

What he'd failed to notice in his huff in Los Angeles, what Charles had tried to point out to him, was a series of large cases. When Nathan lifted the first one out with a strained grunt, his eyes bulged open.

A drum set. Of course, they needed one. He was a drummer now. As the facts caught up with him, Charles sidled up next to him, and produced a cigarette from behind his ear.

"I thought you could use this, ah, more than I could."

Confused, Pickles took a second to recall if he might be referring to the drums or the cigarette.

He looked down into Ofdensen's hand. The cigarette was one of his, the one he'd given him at the Irish pub. He stared at the lawyer's face, trying to find some hint of motive.

He merely shrugged, and turned away to help with the unloading.

Pickles cocked his hip and slid the end of the cigarette into his mouth, shaking his head. Was the lawyer playing a game?

He scoffed, and looked down into his bic lighter. After only a moment the nicotine weakened his posture and his thoughts were lost in an uncaring drunkenness.

Nathan lumbered past him, a drum under each arm and a guitar slung on his back. The taller man teetered from leg to leg in front of the hotel door, trying his best to open it with his foot.

Skwisgaar followed him with a microphone stand and a second guitar. Pickles guessed Ofdensen had also obtained an instrument for Magnus.

"Pickles."

He was pulled from his thoughts again, this time by his manager.

"Yea."

"I need to check us in. Can you stay here with the rest of the gear?"

Pickles looked him in the eye and dragged on his cigarette drunkenly. When he didn't answer Charles continued.

"It would only be ah.. A couple of minutes. Max."

"Yea. I'll stand here, I can do 'dat."

Suddenly he was left alone on the street. He turned to look behind him, in the lit foyer of the hotel he watched Charles usher his drunken friends into an elevator and out of sight.

He sat down on the remaining drum case. Besides it, only Skwisgaar's suitcases were left to take upstairs. He supposed, if he tried, he could manage them himself, but there was no way he would be removing himself from his cigarette.

He dragged and stared down the dark street hazily. He found himself feeling unsatisfied. He knew he'd been snappy, and had continued to be after intoxicating himself. He put it down to his abstinence and sucked heavily on his cigarette to concrete the point before he could think on it any further.

Charles returned when he was about finished, Nathan following behind him. The walk seemed to have sobered the singer up, he was looking much brighter.

"Pickles. Are you alright to walk upstairs?" The lawyer's hand clapped on his shoulder, but he stood and shook it off immediately.

"'Course I ahm." He shouldered past the pair of them. His cigarette had gone out, and he had half a mind to pocket the butt of it, changing his mind on the way to the elevator, he flung it onto the shiny tile.

When they finally made it upstairs Pickles noticed a figure slumped in the hall. As they got closer he recognized the man as Skwisgaar, passed out amongst their gear.

"Woah. What the fuck,"

Nathan nudged the blonde with his foot. He let out an irritated, drunken groan and the three remaining men relaxed.

"He's just drunk."

Charles gingerly stepped over him and pulled out a swipe card.

"Yeah, really fucking drunk."

Nathan bit his lip and squinted sideways at Pickles, who swayed into the wall, bouncing off it to stand upright again once he realized he was falling.

"Now, ah, we actually have 2 rooms." He turned the handle on the first, securing it open with the latch behind the door.

"The suites here are only 2 bedroom, so to avoid any, ah, awkwardness, I took the liberty of booking 2. I'll be in here with Skwisgaar, you and Nathan are across the hall. Here, Nathan."

He passed the second room key to the singer. Charles couldn't be sure, but at least that particular night, Nathan seemed the more responsible of the pair. He didn't notice, but Pickles had given him an offended glare when he announced their sleeping arrangements.

"Will you both be alright for the evening?"

Charles leant down and picked Skwisgaar off the floor by the scruff of his neck. The others were a little surprised to find that the lawyer had no trouble at all with the weight of the unconscious man.

"Uhh yeah. Pickles?"

"Yea."

"Well then. I don't know about you boys, but I'm exhausted. We have a – ah, television interview tomorrow. 3pm. I'll be collecting you around 12. Good evening."

With that, Charles hoisted the Swede over his shoulder and disappeared inside his suite. Being carried upside down didn't seem to agree with the guitarist, they heard the sound of retching, vomiting, and then swearing from behind the closed door.

"I think maybe we drink too much."

Nathan turned toward Pickles, then looked down at the plastic swipe card in his hand.

"You ain' even seeeeeeen drinkin'!"

Pickles shouted, decibels above what would have been appropriate for a hotel corridor in the dead of night. He laughed, and Nathan had to crack a smile when he heard Skwisgaar's folorn moan through the wall.

Nathan unlocked the door, happy that he at least didn't have to shoulder an unconscious Skwisgaar like their manager.

"Now we cen' really ghet started."

Pickles made his way to the kitchenette of the suite, not bothering to look around the place or secure himself a room before attacking the minibar. Nathan followed with his backpack, noting that Pickles didn't have any bags.

"Hey Nat.. Hey Nathan, the wine is 12%! You wahnt some?"

"Uhh, yeah I guess!"

The singer walked up the hall, turning lights on as he went. He found the bedrooms were identical except for the view, so he picked the one that faced out to the black water, preferring it to the city lights. He abandoned his bags there and shut himself in the bathroom.

Everything was spotless and white or silver, and again he was rendered uncomfortable by the cleanliness of the penthouse.

Returning to the main room he found Pickles fiddling with the fireplace. In a woosh of flame it burst to life, causing the redhead to jump back. He turned to see his friend, grinning sheepishly.

"It's aye ah… Gas fire." He chuckled, spinning on the carpet towards where he'd placed the bottled wine.

"It's fucken' brutal outside. I mean, it's freezing."

"Yep! Californian winter's got nothin' on an East Coast spring." Pickles paused to pour a generous glass for each of them, sloshing it over the tiles of the fireplace.

"Haven't you been out here before?"

"Yeah, no, I have. I lived sorta near here, kinda."

"Oh yea? Wouldn'ta picked you fer a 'Yorker." Pickles grinned and drank from his glass.

"No, I mean I was in Florida."

Pickles gave him a look.

"Flahrida? 'Dat's not near here! What are you talkin' about?"

"Well if you look, like on the map.. Then it's pretty close. I mean, it's closer than fucking California is."

The drummer couldn't help but crack up a little.

"Yer so serious, dood, even when yer lahgic is all messed up."

Nathan smiled just a little, turning the glass in his hands.

"Hey, I gaht somethin' for ya."

Pickles tugged at his shoe, pulling it off without too much effort.

"'Dey say s'illigal the bring drugs ahn a plane…"

He pulled on the sole of his boot, which came away from the leather in one piece, the heel of it hollowed out.

"But if 'dey really cared dey'd prahbably have better security Ahh!"

He laughed and plucked a plastic bag from the empty part.

"So what's yer poison, dood? I gaht some weed – oh hey you don't smoke, do ya?"

"Uhh sometimes maybe…" He muttered.

"Okey, so I gaht weed, I gaht some pills here, I gaht… Oh, hey… Nevermind about 'dat."

He pocketed a pouch.

"Oh ehn heres ahh…"

He peered closely at the bag he pulled out.

"'Dis one's mescaline. Woah, dunno how old 'dat stuff is."

He giggled drunkenly.

"Think I'm jest gahnna have a smoke."

He picked up his treasures and reached above his head, finding a spot for them on the mantelpiece above them. From the bag that was left he plucked a couple of buds and began pulling them apart with his fingers.

"You live with yer folks in Flahrida?"

"Yeah"

"Ain't got no siblings?"

"No."

Pickles smiled.

"Yer lucky."

"I dunno, maybe. My mom's pretty bitchy, it would be nice to have someone to share the blame with, I think."

Pickles was quiet for a second, focusing on rolling his joint.

"You shouldn't blame shit on yer siblings." Was all he said. Nathan felt he should change the subject.

"I guess it's kinda like I had brothers, I had some pretty close friends in high school. You know, me and Magnus went to high school together."

"No kiddin'?" Pickles asked, slotting a filter into the end of his smoke.

"Yeah, we were in a band."

"Have I heard of 'em?"

"No, hah, no. It was a… Just a high school band. We were pretty good, or at least, Magnus was pretty good. I think I was terrible."

Pickles lit the end of the joint and rolled onto his stomach.

"Do YOU think you sucked or did Magnus tell ye 'dat?"

"Uhh well, I mean he said it, but I did, though."

Pickles exhaled and passed the smoke to Nathan, who took it gladly.

"Ehh fuck it man, if you can play one song you can play 'em all. Can't be too many Skwisgaars out 'dere you know."

"Yeah, maybe." Nathan's head was too heavy to really focus on the idea.

Pickles plucked the joint from his hand and took a couple of big tokes, moving to his knees. He handed it back and exhaled as he stood.

"Goin' to 'de pisser. Oh, hang on." He leant down and picked up his glass, draining it.

"Pour me another one!"

Nathan watched him go, the drummer made a not so subtle detour by the kitchen, picking a spoon from the cutlery drawer.

He refilled his own glass and then his friends, drinking the last drops of wine from the bottle itself before retiring it to the mantelpiece. The fire was roaring now, and he felt progressively sleepier sitting by it.

He didn't make the connection between Pickles and his spoon until he returned from the bathroom.

Nathan wasn't especially comfortable around heroin users. He thought their miniscule pupils and shallow breathing was creepy.

Pickles caught the look on his face and rolled his eyes as he sank back to the carpet.

"It's only a little hit dude, nothin' to like, freak out about."

"You sure you should be doing that… I mean… Charles is-"

"Pfft. Charles. He doesn't know what he's tahlkin' about."

"It's probably not good for you."

Pickles let himself sag, resting his shoulder against the broad chest of his band mate.

"Tell 'dat to any rock star, en' see what 'dey say." He closed his eyes.

Nathan had been dragging on the joint on his own, he stared into the flame, mesmerized.

"I don't care, it would just suck to have to… Get another drummer, like, right before a show." He growled quietly, and Pickles' responded with a quiet laugh.

"Drummers are a pain. I had a friend who was a drummer."

He went quiet, nodding, and Nathan nudged him gently, wanting to hear his story. Pickles continued, but he spoke slowly, stretching out his sentences.

"He did drugs too. So did all of us. He wasn't 'de worst of us, but he ahlways gaht so excited. I was… We…" He shifted his weight as he tried to complete his sentence. He appeared to change his mind, and started again.

"Were good friends for a while. 'Got embarrassed, though. It was jest.. too easy." Pickles appeared to be nodding off, but Nathan was hazily trying to piece his sentence together, the drug in his system convinced him he was missing words through his own negligence.

"Cause of the heroin?"

"What?" Pickles cottoned on.

"Yea. Yeah cause… Abuse 'en such. S'too hard when you jest don't care anymore."

He let out a long exhale. Nathan frowned, willing his fuzzy mind to make sense of what Pickles said.

"What was too easy?"

"Din' I ahlready say?" He mumbled.

"What… I mean. Uhh." He paused to formulate his question.

"What happened to him?"

"What? Oh…" He exhaled, turning his head to snuggle into his front man.

"I guess we jest, drifted apart. I wasn't into it anymore. Had some fights, band broke up, pop."

He stretched his hand out and flicked his fingers with the last word, then his hand fell to his side.

"Was cute 'though. _Sammy's got a candymouth…_" He seemed to sing out the last part of his sentence, and the singer smiled dopily, pressing his dry tongue against the cottony roof of his mouth. Pickles was humming softly, his voice grew quieter, until eventually he stopped.

Nathan stared into the fire for a while longer until he noticed the burning feeling in his cheeks. He pulled back a little, Pickles' head fell in his lap. He looked down to find the drummer had fallen asleep.

He pushed the hair out of his friend's face. He decided he was too drunk to easily carry the drummer to bed, so instead he stretched his hand out and took a pillow from the recliner closest to them, carefully putting it in place of himself under the redhead's dreads.

With a sleepy smile he stood, and tiptoed up the hallway to his room, turning off light switches as he went.

* * *

Toki Wartooth awoke with a start, sweating. Only a split second before he'd sworn he had been in some kind of danger, but now that he was awake he couldn't even remember what had been chasing him. He heard a noise and a nauseating wave of fear passed through him, but when Anthony emerged from his bathroom he sighed and relaxed.

"Oh… It's just you. I hads a… Bads sleep."

"Nightmare?"

Anthony crossed the room silently and sat at Toki's side.

"Scary sleep."

"Yeah"

Anthony smiled sympathetically, dead eyes fixed on Toki's icy blues.

"Mareritt."

At this, Toki sat up.

"Du snakker norsk?"

"Yeah, my auntie is from Norway… You were speaking it last night, I was answering you."

Toki struggled to remember, but strangely, he couldn't recall much from the night before.

"What… Happened?" He clutched the sheets, his brow knotted in worry. He'd never not been able to remember what he'd done and where he'd been before.

"We went to the party. You got pretty sloshed, actually. Well done."

"I don'ts remembers. Am I sick?" He panicked on his second sentence, clutching the sheets closer to his face.

"No, no. Don't be daft. You just probably blacked out. It happens when you drink, don't worry about it."

Toki whimpered in agreement, and put his hand to his head.

"I'm thirsty, I think."

"Yeah you're probably dehydrated, man."

Toki pulled back the covers and stood. On his way to the bathroom he stopped, rubbing his naked shoulders.

"Where did my shirts go?"

"You took it off last night, don't you remember?"

"N… No…" He went a little pale, anxiety mounting.

"Don't know what to tell you mate, you came outside without it, I haven't seen it."

"Oh! I remembers takes my shirt off! People stare." He frowned and looked down at his chest.

"Ams 'cause my stomach's bumpy. Err.. _muskel."_

"Ja." Anthony laughed, brushing his hair back.

"But I don't think that's why they were looking at you."

"What's den?"

He hadn't asked before Anthony had stood. He crossed the floor and stood behind him, resting his head on Toki's shoulder from behind. He spoke softly, his lips right by the Norwegian's ear.

"I think it was because of this…"

His cold white fingers traced down Toki's back, causing him to flinch as the boy's digits traced the weirdly sensitive warp of skin that covered his back.

The scars. He'd forgotten. Jumping forward he turned to face his friend, back against the wall.

"Ohhoh.. 'Dat.. Dat's ahh…" He struggled to find words.

"Et fødselsmerke?" Anthony mused, an eyebrow raised.

"No's. Not's 'dat… It's from puberty! My skin's stretch real bad – genskektics, you know…" He smiled nervously.

Anthony was quiet for a moment, his hands clasped behind his back. Without bringing them forward he took three steps towards his friend, ending up right under his nose.

"I don't know why you're hiding that story, but you were real big last night, I reckon people are gonna wonder what happened to you. I'd come up with something convincing, if I were you."

Toki found himself a little afraid of his friend, it wasn't the first time Anthony had made him feel uncomfortable, but in that moment he felt something was… wrong.

Anthony seemed to sense this, and he stepped back, blinked, and looked away. When he spoke his voice was melodic, quiet. Like when they'd first met.

"It's the last day of holidays, so I thought maybe you'd want to hang out, go out somewhere, maybe?" He looked back and smiled at Toki, who appeared to soften a little.

"I'll be downstairs, I'm gonna grab breakfast. You should get dressed and come down." He smiled, and crossed the room to the door, not losing Toki's eyes.

"I'll save you a couple of snags, yeah?"

Toki opened his mouth to answer, but Anthony cut him off.

"Good."

They smiled at one another, and then he was gone.

Toki sat back on his bed, confused. Anthony was his friend, so why did he get such a strange vibe from him? He was nervous about his scars, the black out, school, and the behavior of his friend all at the same time. He had never done well with anxiety, not since…

He shook his head, ignoring the thought, but a seed of uneasiness had planted itself in his stomach, and his palms began to sweat. The room seemed to get smaller and he slumped his shoulders as he realized what had hit him.

"faen panikkanfall…"

He managed to make his way to the shower before things got too dizzying. He sat in the bottom of it once the water started to run, closed his eyes, and took deep breaths.

It always felt like poison. At first he didn't notice it. When the panic attacks had started coming he thought he may have been having a heart attack. He only figured out it wasn't when he hadn't died, alone in the dark a few hours later.

But now an electric sensation made its way up his arms and into his heart, a sickly, alarming guilt festering in his stomach. The worst of all was his heartbeat, pounding in fear.

Now and then it felt like it might jump out of his chest, like it might wriggle up his throat and suffocate him. If it weren't for its insistent hammering he might have guessed that it did.

Though his throat was clear he found it hard to breathe, as if he would forget, as if he was in control of not only every single breath, but the in and out of his lungs.

Big breaths didn't seem to be enough. The air felt like it was sifting through his lungs like sand, like water through gills, as if he wasn't taking in any oxygen at all.

He had cried then, the water steamed up the glass box of his shower, clouding his reflection. Droplets streamed down his face, mingling with his tears, so he couldn't feel them. The rushing water in his ears stopped him from hearing anything.

Soon the steam became too much for him, so he reached up, nearly ripping the antique handle away from the wall as he shut off the stream. He shuddered, cold air clinging to his skin. He whimpered, holding himself. His fingertips nudged the edge of one of his scars and he gasped, holding his breath, shutting his eyes. He pushed his forehead against his bent up knees and exhaled brokenly.

Outside his little room, Anthony stood. His back to Toki's bedroom door. He heard the water shut off, heard Toki whimper, and smiled.


	11. They'll Never be Good for You

**AH Something's wrong and I think it's that I'm not drinking while writing anymore. Will remedy this with the next one.**

**Kageno – You're missing what everyone else is so faaarrrrr yes. Shit's gonna be dangerous.**

**Hoping to pick up on Magnus a bit more in this chapter. Next installment is a VALENTINES SPECIAL! Might write some intimate detail for that.**

**OOOOH And Pentagram is a real band, the history of them in a nutshell is their singer is a genius but also a crazy drug addict, cool guy actually, but jesus… They have had a billion different musicians backing him because he never gets his shit together and everyone bails because they can't take his shit. For this reason I thought it would be fun to entwine them with Dethklok a little.. So, not 100% historically accurate, but go look at the past members of Pentagram on Wikipedia, and I mean, someone from the Metalocalypse universe totally could have played for them, so I made that so.**

**Promise the next chapter will be a longer one.  
**

* * *

"If you're goin' to the bathroom ya better make it quick, man! If they play an encore it's gonna be pretty soon!"

Sammy Twinskins clapped his hand against the redhead's chest, ushering him towards the direction of the amphitheater bathroom.

"Alright! I'm goin' already!"

The redheaded singer made a face and began to maneuver his wiry frame through the bodies pressing themselves against the railing underneath the stage. The sky had started to spit, and Pickles looked up into the grey heavens and squinted on his way.

In a crowd of glam rock fans his attire was hardly out of place. Swinging into the bathroom he admired himself in the lipstick stained mirror. His shoulder blade length hair was teased up high over his head, his impossibly skinny legs swathed in distressed light blue denim, which in turn were sheathed below the knee by cowboy boots that matched his hair. It was a hot day, so he'd forgone his usual tank top and instead decided on a tight, see through mesh shirt, black with black sequins.

The rest of the crowd vibed his look back at him. Some fans were peacocking, having used entire cans of hairspray, the girls dripping glitter, though others went the subtle route with merely a band t-shirt and jeans. He was by no means the best dressed, but eyes still turned on him as he walked.

He'd grown accustomed to the fame. He'd left his awkward teenager years behind only the year before, his features were becoming finer, and when he'd began to catch the eyes of girls and boys alike it had boosted his confidence, and by extension, his ego.

Now it was usually a 50/50 that when someone approached him, it would either be for his autograph or his number. Sometimes, they didn't even know who he was. He found those situations to be the most delicious.

He pulled a tube of mascara from his back pocket and re-applied it to his lashes. The man who'd been staring at him from the door of a bathroom stall seemed to remember where he was, as he shook his head, and left the bathroom, flustered.

Now alone, Pickles grinned, running his fingers through his hair. Sometimes he'd get stuck staring at himself. Time had flown so quickly it was hard to believe that the skinny, pretty diva he saw in front of him was really just his reflection.

He sighed, and reached down to the pill-shaped pendant that hung from his neck, not missing a beat to twist the two parts of it open, revealing a mound of white powder. He brought the necklace to his nose and inhaled sharply through it. Back in the day, he would have measured out a line, but through regular use of the drug he was now sure that no amount of cocaine could be a danger to his health.

With a final tweak of his hair he slipped out of the bathroom. A small crowd had gathered outside. The girls in the front of it gasped, and whispered to each other behind their hands. As much as he might have liked to blow the minds of his fans, the band had started up again, and he wanted to see their final performance of the set.

He pushed past the girls and disappeared back into the crowd, making his way through the collection of writhing bodies. Sammy spotted him when he got close and pulled him through the last line of people.

"Dude ya almost missed it! Shit! Shit! They're playin' _Casino_ I think! You know, from the EP they sent us before the album launch last year! I didn't think they'd released it!" The drummer yelled over the music into his friend's ear.

"Yeah, sounds like it dood."

He bent away from him to light a cigarette. As the beat started up he jumped on the balls of his feet, one hand in the air, his eyes closed.

_You ain't gotta tell me!_

Their singer, Frankie Switchblade, strutting back and forth on the stage, flicking his berry colored hair.

_Not ta, not ta believe it's true!_

_I'm countin' my cards 'cause I can't count on you._

Pickles dragged on his cigarette and switched his feet, running his spare hand down his stomach as his hips ground front to back.

Sammy was watching the band. He wasn't much of a dancer, unlike his darling lead singer.

_Casino! Casino!_

_I'll take a bet that you don't show,_

_Pack your shit up, back to Cicero._

The pair of them sang along til the end of the song, and cheered with the rest of the crowd when the final notes of the song faded out.

"Thank you! Thanks. Huh. You guys are great. Alright! We've been Super Destroyer Fuck Machine! GOODNIGHT!"

"FUCK MACHINE! YEAH!" Sammy yelled up at the stage, still cheering.

He grinned at his band mate and pulled him in for a kiss. Pickles shut his eyes and took it, but gently cut it short, looking around at the surrounding audience, confirming no one had seen them.

The show had been good, he had to admit. Not as good as their older stuff. Pickles wished he had been able to see them while he was still in high school, when his favorite of their albums was released.

They stayed until the crowd had mostly filtered out. More to escape the traffic than to escape the fans. They found themselves in the middle of a small congregation of them anyway. Sammy looked to Pickles pleadingly, but the singer was always more than happy to stick around a few extra minutes, giving sultry looks to the group as Sammy answered their questions.

Eventually they dwindled away until it was only a couple of teenagers talking to Sammy. They seemed to have no interest in Pickles so he quietly made his leave, exiting the venue through the side door by the bathrooms.

He strolled the ally way up and down a couple of times. He figured by the time he'd had another smoke Sammy would be ready to go home. Just as he was lighting up, the stage door behind him opened. He jumped forward and turned around.

"Oh, sahrry dood. I'm jest waitin' for someone, I ain't gonna bother ya." He smiled at the figure in the doorway.

Frankie was taller than he looked on stage.

"Oh, no, it's quite alright."

Frankie squinted.

"Hey… Aren't you… Pickles? Snakes n' Barrels, right?"

"Ah, yeh." He nodded and smiled a little, butterflies rising in his chest.

_Fuck Machine_ had heard his music – his band! Frankie Switchblade had to have heard him sing before. The feeling was surreal.

"Good set tonight, man."

They stared at one another. Pickles could feel a hundred questions forming in his head, and Frankie looked as inquisitive as he was, though for an entirely different reason.

"Hey, do you-"

Pickles was cut off, something pressed against his chest, and after another second the dark wall of the ally pressed against his back. He gasped for air, but found none. The super star's mouth saw to that.

All his teenaged fantasies turned in his stomach. He opened his eyes in time to see Frankie fall to his knees in front of him. He felt frantic fingers on his ribs, tracing downward. He stared ahead, reading the graffiti on the wall.

His senses were kept from him as the other singer pulled open his fly. He rolled his head back and exhaled as he felt his idol's warm breath lap against his pubic bone.

It was all he could do to stand there. He glanced down once or twice, but vertigo forced his eyes back up again each time. He picked up his breathing as a spike of pleasure drove through him, and he clasped his hand on the back of Frankie's head.

When he opened his eyes again, a new light was cast along the ground. He focused his blurry vision on the cause of it. Someone stood in the doorway. Frankie's tongue rolled in just the right way, and his eyes shot wide open as his knees buckled.

"Sammy!"

His exclamation came in the form of a moan. His blonde lover had already turned to walk away by the time he said it, and once he had, Frankie stood, licking his lips.

"That's not my name, you know…" He glowered.

"No, no! Naht you! SAMMY!" Suddenly he was able to move again.

He fumbled to refasten his pants as he ran, pushing past an annoyed Frankie in a desperate attempt to reach his upset lover.

The building seemed to warp as he made a run towards it.

"Sammy! I didn't mean to! Sammy! SAMMY!"

His vision blurred, the floor broke apart in chunks and began to rise, suspended in antigravity.

"SAMMY!"

He kept yelling, before everything faded to black.

"Pickles."

"Hey, Pickles…"

"PICKLLLLLLEEES!"

Nathan stooped to line his mouth up with the channel of the redhead's ear. He was still hardly responding to his efforts to wake him, though this time, he'd let out a low groan and rolled over onto his stomach.

It had been like that all morning. The time was drawing frightfully near 12 pm, and Nathan knew Charles would be coming for them any moment.

As Pickles had stirred in his sleep, the singer poked him again, hopeful.

"S…s….Sammy…" He murmured.

Nathan watched him weakly extend a hand across the carpet, as if reaching for something.

"Pickles! Wake up. Seriously. Fucken' wake up."

"Sahrry… Sah…. Sahrry. Saahhhrrryyyy –oh?" Pickles opened his eyes to realize his mouth was running off without him.

He shut it, and pulled himself up from the carpet groggily.

"Nathan? Wha… Oh. Fuck."

He held his head, wiping cold sweat from his cheeks. He suddenly became aware of a tightness in his groin, and his eyes flicked downward in panic. To his relief, Nathan must have covered him with a blanket sometime while he was asleep, and the bottom half of him was sufficiently covered.

He slouched, his brain calibrating pressure behind his eyes, a dull ache in his arm and an uncomfortable light sensitivity.

"Dude, Charles' gonna be here any minute. You gotta get dressed!"

"Charles?... Oh.. shit…"

He scratched his head. Nathan didn't look like he'd paid much attention to his half asleep ramblings, and though his estimate was rough, there were bigger issues to attend to first.

"I am dressed. I didn't bring any spare clothes, dood."

Satisfied that his erection had receded he clambered to his feet and stretched, making his way to the kitchen.

"You didn't bring… Anything?"

"No! I'll buy stuff when we go out! Dat's the best way to travel."

Pickles set up the coffee machine and reached on his tip toes to procure a glass.

"You wan' a coffee?"

He slouched, making a face at his friend across the counter.

"I don't think we have time for coffee. Skwisgaar… He said Charles is always early. It's noon! He should already be here." Nathan was tapping his fingers together nervously, his permanent scowl softened by worry.

"Eh okey if you don't want one. I'll just slug this real quick."

He poured his mug half full and bent to the fridge, plucking first the milk, and then a vodka miniature from inside of it. He sloshed the milk in and then cracked the bottle, Irishing his drink.

He brought the mug to his lips, testing it. It was a luke warm, he'd added too much milk. He gulped it down anyway.

"I'll jest go wash my face."

He nodded at Nathan and made his way to the bathroom. Once inside he shut the door and leant heavily against it.

"Fuck." Whispering, he hissed, turning to face the mirror.

That dream. A memory brought to life. It wasn't the first time. His encounter with Frankie Switchblade had been nigh on four years ago, but now and then that particular memory would shake up his dreams, and he'd see it like it was yesterday.

He leant heavily against the basin and turned the water on, coughing.

He pulled his wrist up high enough to examine in the mirror. Carefully, he pulled his wristband up higher to reveal the spot where he'd shot up the night before. It was tender, for sure, and he winced as the elastic fabric rubbed over it.

It had been sore for a while. He wouldn't say it was infected, he'd had worse, but the stiffness in his wrist had been bothering him for some time. He'd have to power through it on stage. Occasionally he'd ponder just giving up on the drug all together, but he always came to the conclusion that he could do both.

There was always regret though. All too often he would give his future self the finger and indulge in what he shouldn't.

_Sammy_.

The drummer's name rolled around in his head and he pressed his temples in attempt to erase it. He wasn't even the one who got hurt. It was the nature of their relationship that really struck a chord. It made him moody, after his embarrassing moment with Charles he couldn't get Sammy out of his brain, and without alcohol to drown it, his thoughts had been able to run free.

Outside, he heard a door open and the voice of Charles joined Nathans. He washed his face, pulled his mascara from his back pocket and dragged it through his eyelashes. That would have to do. Luckily for him, the way his hair had ruffled looked intentional, the creases in his shirt complemented the rips in his jeans, and once he threw on his jacket he doubted anyone would notice.

* * *

Skwisgaar flicked his golden hair over his shoulder for what must have been the hundredth time. Magnus was not amused. For all the Swede's skills he thought his fellow guitarist would have more tact, but it was not so.

Nathan had stepped up to answer a couple of questions as well, he'd noticed, but by far he and Skwisgaar were taking the spotlight for the interview. Pickles repeatedly declined to comment, but they weren't broadcasting live, so no one was particularly worried when he'd answer with a grunt rather than a word.

The presenter was their age, if a little older. Magnus figured he couldn't be older than 30, anyway. Everyone had relaxed once Charles had introduced them, the crew seemed really chill, and though their channel was popular, even Skwisgaar couldn't say they were condescending or sucking up.

"Cool, cool! Just a couple more questions for you guys here, ahh…" The presenter double checked the card in front of him.

"You guys don't play with a bass guitarist. Do you have plans to bring one to your group in the future?"

Skwisgaar would answer this one.

"Oh I think so, ja, I means we would maybe have hads one alreadies but 'dere just was nots enough time. I think its wills happen."

"And you're playing live on Saturday, isn't that right, opening for the infamous Pentagram! How do you feel about that?"

Skwisgaar opened his mouth, but Magnus beat him to it.

"They are… Legendary, in their own way, I'm very much looking forward to meeting Bobby Liebling, if I get the chance. The show starts at 8pm, of course."

Beside him, Pickles lit up a cigarette, silently protesting for whatever reason.

"Alright! Awesome." Their host smiled.

"Well that just about wraps it up! We got a lot of questions from Skwisgelf fans, but the one we are really wondering ourselves is, what are you going to call this project?"

Magnus sat up a little, tightening the fist that rested on the table in front of him. Pickles exhaled smoke in a long cautious breath. Nathan and Skwisgaar looked at one another.

Shit. They hadn't thought of a name.

And it wasn't as though they hadn't had time, Magnus thought. But not only that, no one had even bothered to bring the issue up, not even their manager. There was silence for a moment.

"Errr.. We ares…" The Swede bit his lip and looked sideways at his friends.

"Oh, ahh.. Well 'dis is the first bands dat I am beingk a founders of, so naming us is being a .. Hard… Deskision."

Nathan opened his mouth. Magnus noticed a split second too late. With such an important issue being discussed he would have rather talked out of his ass than let Nathan have a go at it.

"We're gonna play Death Metal so our name's gonna be fucken' badass, it's gonna be fucken' brutal." He was pumping himself up. Pickles' eyes darted back and forth across the floor.

There was a silence again.

"So, you guys don't have a band name? How can you perform like that?" Their interviewer was leaning forward now, demonstrating that this dialogue would be cut from the broadcast.

"I might be able to answer this one." Suddenly, Charles was there, standing between the cushioned seats that contained Pickles and Skwisgaar.

"The name is Dethklok."

All eyes turned to their manager, but his face didn't falter, his eyes were fixed and deadly serious.

"Dethklok. That's awesome." Their host, none the wiser, sat back in his seat, and addressed the camera over Nathan's shoulder.

"Well that's all the time we have here with Skwisgaar Skwisgelf and his new band Dethklok, and again their first live performance will be opening for Pentagram this weekend at the Mercury Lounge, lower east side Manhattan, show starts at 8 pm. We're all looking forward to hearing what they can do." He held a smile.

"Cut."

"Okay, good job guys!" The presenter slapped his hands together and stood, turning away to address the director. Crew members came out of the woodwork and began packing up the set.

"Wow. Fucken' good save there, huh?" Magnus glanced sideways at Skwisgaar. The Swede's lips were pursed.

"Dethklok?" Nathan winced and looked towards Charles.

Pickles, beside him, stubbed out his cigarette on his shoe.

"Yes. Dethklok."

"What does that even mean?" Magnus rolled his eyes and tossed his curly hair, folding his arms.

"I like it." Skwisgaar looked sourly at Magnus, then Nathan.

"How'd you comes up with somethings good so fast like 'dat?"

"Well, Skwisgaar, we have actually discussed this before, you and I. I suspect you don't remember."

Skwisgaar pondered for a moment, testing his memory.

"If you all don't like it then you can always, ah, amend the decision at a later date, of course."

"Who came up with it?" Pickles asked, still staring ahead.

"Ah, I did. But it was a brainstorming session, and I believe Skwisgaar deserves the credit. The name will of course be… Registered under your collective names."

Everyone was quiet again, and Pickles was the first to move from his chair. He stood and pulled out his cigarette pack.

"It's growin' on me. " He picked the microphone from the neck of his shirt and placed it on the table.

"Yeah I mean… No, I like it. It's metal." Nathan shrugged, obviously a little disappointed to have been left out of the decision.

Magnus didn't like it much. The name lacked subtlety to him.

"Okay, guys. I'm cuttin' you loose for the day." Charles looked down at his watch, bemused.

"I'm taking a cab back to the hotel, if anyone wants to join me you're welcome to, and ah, if I don't see you all, have a – ah… Happy Valentine's day."

Without so much as a smile he turned to continue on his way out of the building.

As he thought about what to do with his afternoon, Magnus heard bits of the bands conversation behind him.

"Neh, I gatta go buy some clothes n' stuff for the show en' everything, but maybe tonight we should do something, I think."

"Pickle, you should take Na'tan with you for shoppingks. He has no stage clothingks."

"What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"

"Dood, I know for a fact the jacket yer wearin' is American Eagle."

"What's wrong with that?"

"It's fuckin' gay."

"But hows do you knows it's from de Amerik-"

"I just do, alright?"

"Guys."

Magnus turned to face the others.

"I'm going to take Mr. Ofdensen back to the hotel. No sense him spending money on a cab when I have a car here."

"Mrs Ofdensens." Skwisgaar scoffed quietly to himself.

"So hey, if you want to meet me back there around 8 we can go out for drinks. I'll get first round. How does that sound?"

The others murmured in agreement and Magnus gave them a nod before briskly following their manager.

He found him outside, dialing his cell phone.

"Cell phone, aye?"

At the sound of Magnus' voice, Charles lowered his device.

"Those things are expensive." He smiled and stepped closer.

"I have one, but they aren't much use when no one else seems to have one."

"Skwisgaar has one, actually. But I can never seem to, ah, get a hold of him anyway."

"I have a car here, you know. Can I, take you back to the hotel? Save you cab fare."

Charles hesitated only a second to accept.

"Good." Magnus smiled, and gestured for the manager to follow him.

"Maybe I should purchase phones for the rest of the band." Charles mused as they reached Magnus' Toyota.

"I think that would be a good idea."

They drove in silence for a while. The traffic slowed to a crawl, so Magnus took a turn, stopping at a Duncan Hills drive through.

"All of this has happened pretty quickly, I mean it's been what, a month? Already opening a show… What's that been like?"

Charles reclined his seat a little, exhaling in frustration. He pulled his glasses from his face, loosening his tie.

"Hhhh. Well, Skwisgaar alone was quite a handful. I'm not sure how I feel about beginning this project, to be honest. The process has been... Eclectic at best. Just when I think everything is done, someone comes to me with a problem, or a request, all unessential." He shook his head.

"Like, Pickles. Right?" He glanced sideways, catching Charles' eye before he turned away, obviously uncomfortable.

"Pickles… What do you mean?"

Magnus noted his squeamishness.

"I mean, Snakes N' Barrels, right? He's Pickles from Snakes N' Barrels. How the fuck does the rest of the band not know who he is?"

"You… Know. Ah." Charles straightened up a little and cleared his throat.

"Yes, well. He did ask me not to ah, bring that era to the band's attention, for whatever reason. I'm also confused as to how Skwisgaar doesn't know, I was pretty sure they had already met, but it appears that it's not so."

Magnus shrugged.

"Maybe he's embarrassed. I figured that glam rock stuff was a little… Gay. Isn't it?"

Magnus collected his coffee from the window and passed a second one to Charles.

"Thank you. Ah, well, it's… Not exactly in sync with the nature of Dethklok."

"Oh yeah, and that's the other thing? Dethklok? What kind of a name is that?"

Charles stared out the window.

"If you want to discuss the name, do it with the band."

"But what does it mean?"

Charles paused again, sipping his coffee.

"It's ah, a combination of things."

Magnus shrugged and rolled his eyes to himself.

"Sure man, alright."

The light went green and he stepped on the gas, lurching ahead of the stream of cars behind him, catching the next light on an orange.

"What do you think about Nathan?"

"I think he's… A phenomenal singer. I don't think we've even begun to see his true potential here. If this project works, it will be all on him, not Skwisgaar."

Magnus squeezed the steering wheel, grimacing.

"What do you mean? What about the rest of us."

"Well you see, in my experience it takes, ah, a great front man, to really bring an act together. Skwisgaar has already established himself, the rest of his bands failed because they could not keep up to his standard. I believe Nathan can, and once he's had a bit of practice, he will. As for the rest of you, well, Pickles is also an established musician, though I've yet to see him on drums, and if you can keep up with Skwisgaar then that's, ah, all we really need."

Magnus gritted his teeth in the brief silence.

"Of course, you cannot overshadow him." Charles looked at him sternly.

Magnus brought the car around to the hotel parking lot, slowing so he could meet Charles' gaze.

"Why?" He asked, his eyes narrowing.

"I wouldn't recommend it. You must understand that, ah, every notable guitarist he's come up against… Well, they haven't met the best ends."

Magnus switched the car off and unclasped his seatbelt. Charles didn't move.

"For example, Skwisgaar just separated from Fuckface Academy. During that time period the lead singer, also their rhythm guitarist, committed suicide, jumped right out the window inside the Capitol Records building. That article hit the news, but the stories of a string of musicians have been, ah, overlooked."

"What do you mean?"

"They go insane, Magnus. A lot of them can't handle being on stage with him, causing violent fits of rage, depression, self-injury…" He trailed, wiping his glasses on his white shirt before placing them back on his nose.

"No one. No one, has played with Skwisgaar for more than two years at a time. It's why all of his bands seem to… Fall apart."

They sat with the foreboding history for a moment.

"Skwisgaar won't tell you that of course, I'm not sure he's entirely aware of the effect he has on proximate guitarists. I'd be careful, taking this job if I were you. That's all."

In his mind, Magnus felt a pang of fear, but it was quickly diluted by his confidence.

"I've matched him note for note so far, I mean, there's only so fucken' good you can be on an instrument… All of that just sounds like a myth."

"I'd just… Be careful."

The pair broke eye contact and set about exiting the vehicle, Charles took his briefcase in hand, and together they made their way to the hotel foyer.


	12. Every Goddamned Time

**Ugh, okey, so I'm the wooorst ever. But here! Here it is! **

**It would appear that I've sort of lost my way here a little. I might just continue for fun, but I maintain it should be re-written before I really really continue. All the same, I feel better now that this is done, and maybe I'll have another chapter out before Christmas. **

**If anyone cares, watch here for any news.**

* * *

Soft, warm, silken sheets. Pillows flanking his sides like rolling waves. The turn of a cottony duvet caressed his face, and Skwisgaar closed his eyes in a soft moment of sleepy comfort. Warm skin slid over his somewhere to his right, a stirring that imprinted the mattress beneath them only slightly before he felt soft hands rest either side of his stomach, and then she was on top of him.

He reached out into the darkness, tracing the silver lining of his lover's silhouette in the early hours of Friday morning. Slick warmth spread out between his legs and he accepted the girl's advances as his desire began to whirl. He moaned softly, gently squeezing a handful of what he assumed was her stomach, moving his palm carefully up and over the crest of her breast, finding a nipple to toy with. Elsewhere, his other hand found a hold on her rounded hip, and together they established a slow, grinding rhythm.

It was times like this that he really appreciated a larger woman. Everything about her was soft. She could envelope him in her curves, but he could still feel the hitches of her breath through her proportionately tiny waist and ribcage. When she moved her hips he felt himself move with her, gently rocking against the sheeted mattress. The pillows surrounding him were warmed by the radiating heat from their two naked forms, and his eyes lulled back in his head as every nerve in his being responded to the slow, lapping pleasure she was providing.

She leant forward over his face, intensifying the heat. He lifted the arm from her waist and used it to brush back his blonde tresses, spreading them effortlessly over the pillow beneath his head. To her, he was the image of perfection. And with his eyes closed, his bottom lip hooked under his right incisor, no girl could dare argue with her that he wasn't.

Their tempo increased, and after a minute of soaking her in, he decided it was time to take action. Propping himself up on one elbow he raised a nipple to his lips, sucking it into his mouth so he could nip it between his teeth. She gasped, and he rose up higher, slender arms moving so he could squeeze the flesh of her hips. He pressed upward roughly, muscles flexing through translucent white skin. After a moment he pushed her off to the side, guiding her onto her stomach.

He wet his lips, sneering perversely as he moved above her, pulling the flesh of her thighs apart. He slicked one hand over the wetness between them and she moaned, pushing back with her hips. He smiled, brushed back his hair, and moved above her. He was aching now, and he wasted no time in running his hand through the manicured patch of blonde pubic hair and up the length of his hardness, gently squeezing just under the head of it. He repeated the action a few times, his spare hand patting her lightly on her flank, slapping harder before diving between her legs.

He dipped a finger inward, and she immediately clenched around it, and his cock twitched in reply. He wet his lips and moved forward on his knees, straddling the back of her. The girl was grabbing at the sheets, now pushing back with her hips, her spine arched so much that he thought it would break. Not able to take any more he lithely pressed his form over her, one hand extending to support himself, the other still thumbing his cock.

He pressed it downward, between her ass cheeks, rubbing up and down between them, coating himself with her copious juices. He found the soft spot he was aiming for and gently pressed forward. He gaged her reaction, rocking back and forth ever so slightly with his hips. At the angle he was looking for she pushed back a little, moaning. He smiled. He was never wrong about where to press.

Holding himself steady he pushed forward, out and then in, a little more each time, until all at once he slammed himself forward. She let out a louder moan now, tossing her head. He'd hit home. His practiced muscles flexed, and he drove home once again.

She pushed back harder, and he let his weight drop, pressing against her back. He found a place to bite, holding her soft skin between his teeth he pushed faster and harder. He tossed his hair, dreamily staring at the ceiling. King of his bed, he spanked her again, pulling his bottom lip further into his mouth, sneering goofily. After a minute he couldn't hold back any longer.

"Ooohhhhh JAAAAAAAAAA!"

Skwisgaar's voice echoed out from the confines of his room.

Next door, Charles lay on his side in bed, gritting his teeth. At this last exclamation he decided he could take no more, and he sat up. The light that streamed through his uncovered window was minimal, and he guessed it couldn't be later than 6 in the morning. He rubbed his face, turning to the bedside table to grasp his glasses. He placed them on his face and focused on the digital clock, 5:26 am.

The lewd sounds from next door continued, softening after Skwisgaar's very apparent climax. God, how he wished he didn't know that. The lawyer pulled himself up and away from the cottony sheets, retying the drawstring on his slackened pajama pants. He'd usually wear a shirt to match when he went to bed, but the silky caress of the expensive hotel sheets had proven too tempting for it.

Hearing a low female moan he scowled at the empty wall that conjoined their two rooms, then pulled himself to his feet, stretching. Reaching again for the dresser he picked up his watch and strapped it to his wrist, before moving to the kitchenette.

_Fuck, _he thought, exhaling. There was no way the coffee in his room could have been restocked since the night before. He'd been up until 3, working, and he'd polished off the provided supply before retiring. Running his hand through his tousled hair he noted he didn't hear Skwisgaar come in. The boys must have been out late.

He scratched an itch between his pectorals, rubbing the skin below his collarbone, over the well-kept hair on his chest. Not bothering with the full suit at this ungodly hour he returned to his room and found his maroon bathrobe, pulling the heavy material over his shoulders.

He made a quick detour to the bathroom, washing his face and combing his hair back. Skwisgaar's noises had subsided for a while, but he heard giggling and the stirrings of what he assumed was another round. A _very_ romantic Valentine's morning.

He found the spare key to Pickles and Nathan's suite inside the breast pocket of his jacket, fished it out and crept out of the apartment. He looked left and right in the hall, blinking in the harsh perpetual hall light. To the side of the door was a short stack of papers. He'd requested that the hotel staff bring up a Washington Post when they arrived, and he turned the corner of his mouth up as he bent to retrieve it. He yawned, and continued across the hall to the threshold of the other's quarters. He swiped the card, the light turned green with a click, and he pulled the door open quietly.

Of course, no one was yet awake, but he figured he could sit quietly there, enjoy a cup of coffee, a much better prospect than lying in bed listening to Skwisgaar until the sun came up. He stepped silently to the kitchen and made his drink. Black, strong coffee suited his fancy, so without adding any extras he took his cup to the communal area, in front of the gas fire. He frowned when he noticed the flames licking away at the fake wood in the fireplace. It wasn't safe to leave on overnight, but no doubt Nathan and Pickles had forgotten about it.

He was grateful for the warmth it provided anyway, the soles of his feet warmed on the carpet, and he chose the chair closest to the window to sit by. He caught his reflection in the mirror fastened above the mantelpiece. The watery blue light from outside struck the side of his face, one lens in his glasses shone a dull reflection, obscuring his eye, the other half of his face was cast in blurry shadow. Focusing on the ledge an empty wine bottle caught his attention, so he put his papers down on the floor, and his coffee on the table in front of him, standing to examine it.

Droplets of red liquid stained the shelf, and next to it a wad of plastic caught his eye. He picked it up, expecting trash, but the package crinkled in his hand and he found it weighty. He rolled a sheathed pill between his fingers. Pickles.

He stuffed the baggie into his pocket and returned to his chair, picking up the newspaper. He unfolded it and made an effort to scour the front page for something interesting, something distracting. He found his eyes couldn't focus. He took his glasses off and rubbed his palm on them, but this did no good. He just couldn't concentrate yet. He'd give it another 10 minutes.

Looking at Charles you would assume that he had his personal life under tight control, that maybe he was married, with a child on the way. He could remember a time when that kind of projection may have been possible, and even desired, but now days he found the best way to control his love life was not to have one at all. Looking at the front page of the newspaper, besotted with Valentines imagery, he confirmed his stance to himself. Relationships were for college kids, those with no ambition, and he was many, many years their emotional senior now.

Even so, he couldn't help but think back to the moment he'd shared with Pickles. The notion was ridiculous. Of the numerous times he'd spent time with bands, maybe even hooked up with a few, this one had to stand out. First and foremost, Pickles was a _man_. He could never have dreamt of being in that situation with a _man._ Not that it was his choice to be in this case anyway.

He licked his lip and frowned. It wasn't the worst thing in the world. He liked to think that he was mature enough to be open to any number of variables, even within his own sexuality. What made him uncomfortable was the frequency with which the kiss popped into his head. He'd noticed a gnawing friction between himself and the drummer ever since, and he wasn't naïve enough to assume Pickles wasn't thinking about it too. The real problem was how much it distracted him, and whatever it was Pickles thought about it.

He shook his head, taking up the paper again. If only he could concentrate then –

His thought process snapped at the sound of his cellphone. The alarming chime radiated out through the walls of the apartment. Charles hastily patted his pockets, looking for the device. He found it eventually and fished it from his inside pocket, answering the call as fast as he could to stop the shrill noise.

"Hello?" He half whispered, having forgotten to check the caller ID.

"Charles, I'm glad you're awake! I thought 7 might be too early to call." Magnus sounded awfully cheery for such an early phone call.

"No, it's ah – just fine." The lawyer stood and moved closer to the window to muffle his voice against the glass.

"I can't fucken' sleep over here, I've been awake for, uhh, probably a couple of hours now.. Jesus." There was a scuffling on the end of the phone, when it subsided Charles answered.

"Yes, I've… been up too."

"Oh great then it isn't just me. So I picked up breakfast for everyone, can I swing by?"

"You didn't have to d-"

"Ahh no don't worry, man, it's nothin', it's nothing… Just had some extra cash, and anyways, we're celebrating!" He laughed huskily; Charles pressed his forehead against the window.

"Yes, of course. Come to Nathan's room, I'll… Make coffee."

"I'm already on my way, I won't be long. Try to at least sound awake, would you?" The dial tone buzzed as Magnus hung up.

Charles let his arm fall to his side. As he feared, he heard soft shuffling footsteps from the hall, and he caught the sleepy silhouette of Nathan shuffling around the corner reflected in the window.

"Uhh, Charles?" Nathan rubbed his eye.

"Nathan."

Charles turned, attempting to look dignified in his robe. Nathan gave him a weird look.

"How'd you know it was me? Is this some kind of Bond villain gag?"

"Well Nathan I ah, heard your voice… When you called my name… just now."

"Oh…. Yeah…."

They stared at each other for a moment.

"Sorry, I just woke up. I thought I heard a noise or somethin'"

"You're quite right, Magnus just called me. I'm sorry for waking you."

Nathan shrugged and shuffled to the kitchen.

"He's ah, coming over with breakfast, if you'd like to stay up for it."

"Yeah, sure, alright."

Nathan got himself a glass of water and lumbered to the little dining table where he set it down. He picked up the bags of clothing he and Pickles had purchased the previous afternoon and set them on the floor. He sat down and the lawyer joined him, newspaper in hand. Nathan glanced at the cover and snorted.

"Fucken' Valentines day. Fucken' bullshit."

He sipped his water.

"Yes." Charles agreed, flipping to the financial section.

"If we didn't have that interview we could have flown here today instead, just get drunk on the plane and not worry about it, you know? Fucken' interview."

"I think it could be fun for you boys. There's a whole city of ah, lonely women out there today."

There was a muted knock at the door, so Charles again rested his paper and stood to answer it.

"Lonely women, fucken' bullshit." Nathan gurgled into his water.

"Ofdensen! Hey! Good morning sir!" Magnus sauntered in, uncharacteristically friendly.

"Hey pal." He grinned towards Nathan and sat himself and the bags he was carrying down at the table.

"I brought sandwiches." Magnus rifled through the plastic and pulled out a pair of foil-wrapped objects, passing them off to the others.

"Who eats sandwiches for breakfast?" Nathan wrinkled his nose a little and picked at the wrapping.

"Ahh… They're breakfast sandwiches. Like bacon and eggs n' shit on a roll. Yours is barbeque."

"Oh." He revealed the soft bready roll and took a bite. Magnus pulled out his own breakfast bit into it immediately.

"So hey, where's Pickles?"

Nathan rolled the question around his head, but Charles answered first.

"I'm pretty sure he's still asleep, right Nathan?"

"Uhh yeah, last time I saw him."

"Someone wanna, wake him up? Breakfast will get cold…"

"It's still pretty early, I dunno if we should –"

"Nonsense! It's no good once it's cold!" Magnus wiped his mouth and stood, brushing crumbs onto the creamy carpet.

Charles and Nathan exchanged looks as he padded off up the hallway.

"He's really tired, I don't think he'll be cool about you waking him up so early…"

"Yes, Nathan. It _is_ early Magnus."

The guitarist paused only a second.

"Well, he has a job now, doesn't he? He has to get used to being on a schedule." He turned and headed up the hall before the others could reply.

"He's gonna be pissed." Nathan grumbled, biting into his sandwich.

Magnus turned, rolling his eyes. It didn't matter what Nathan said. Nathan was merely his 'in'. He was certain that his high school pal wouldn't last long within the ranks of professional musicians, and once he was gone, his attitude wouldn't matter.

He was confident enough to wake Pickles, too. He didn't feel the drummer, though once famous, was above him either. The only men he was concerned about sucking up to were Skwisgaar and the manager. He paused in the hall for a second. He was sure he'd made a sufficient connection with Skwisgaar, from what he could tell the Swede didn't have much of a brain to connect with. He was all about the music, that and his ego.

The lawyer he hadn't quite figured out yet. He'd noticed Charles was stretched a little thin, but from what he knew about his career track record, he wasn't a man to underestimate. Get in while he's down, he told himself. He'd find a weak spot to suck up to, there was no doubt about it.

He reached a cross section of doors in the hall, and seeing Nathan's bedroom door was open, he figured the closed door on the right would be the drummers.

He cracked it open silently, and stepped forward into the room, shutting the door behind him. Pickles was asleep, a tangle of red dreadlocks around his face. In his right hand he clutched a bottle. The label had been ripped off, but from the color of the liquid Magnus decided it was either a white rum or Vodka. The redhead clutched the blankets in his left hand, though the mass of them had been long since kicked off in the singer's restless sleep.

He looked like a rockstar, Magnus thought. All skin and bones, pot marked and ashy. The epitome of not giving a fuck. A pang of jealousy struck him then. The others couldn't know it, but he was sure Pickles had a much better time in his little band than Skwisgaar ever did in his international career. Skwisgaar was all about what he could feel, what he could have, and how he was perceived. Pickles might not have even known what the archetype of a super star was, but he sure as fuck lived it. A genuine ragged stardom had to be lived, and Magnus wasn't sure he'd ever come across it before.

He crept forward carefully, gazing out the window for a moment. The skyline had lightened up, and the early sun cast pretty shadows over Pickles' sleeping form, outlining his understated, lean muscle. The guitarist shook off the awe of it, settling into his usual closeted, self-righteous mood. He bent to shake Pickles' leg, which stuck out the bottom of the bed closest to him.

"Pickles? Hey man, wake up…" He shook the lower limb, and Pickles turned in his sleep, head tossing one way and then the other before he opened his sleepy green eyes.

"Ahhuh.. Heyyaahh.." Pickles focused, identifying the curly haired man at the end of his bed, and quickly assembled his thoughts well enough to greet him.

"Oh ah, hey dood, what's goin' ahn?... Am I late for somethin'?" He blinked in the pale light, squinting out the window.

"Nah, dude. I brought over some breakfast for us, you wanna eat with us? I'll make you a coffee?" Magnus' smile was rigid.

"What time is it?" Pickles rubbed his head, still getting used to the mass of dreads that now adorned him.

"It's like, probably 7 in the morning."

"7 am? Are you shittin' me dude?" Rather than expelling his anger on his acquaintance, Pickles sucked it in through his teeth, the familiar pounding in his head catching up.

"Yeah… It's Valentines day." Magnus confirmed, a little taken aback by the drummer's tone.

"Nah, nah, no way dood. I ain't getting' up 'dis early if I don' haveta. Jest. Hey. Don't take this the wrahng way or nothing;, but, fuck off, will ya?" Pickles collapsed backwards and tossed a sheet over his face, groaning.

Magnus frowned.

"Your breakfast will get cold."

"I don't give a fuck about breakfast right now. I gahtta sleep. It's a public holiday. You guys go ahead 'en have fun. Skwisgaar cen have mine." Pickles rolled away from the intruder, curling up into a freckled ball on the mattress.

Magnus decided not to explain that he'd gotten Skwisgaar his own meal.

"Ah, sure man.. I'll just leave it out in the living room for you."

"Okey. Get out." Pickles sounded more tired than pissed off, and Magnus retreated regardless, a little embarrassed.

When Pickles heard the door shut he rolled restlessly over onto his other side, facing away from the lightening sky. Hungover, again. It wasn't an unfamiliar feeling, though however long his stints of alcoholism lasted he never seemed to get used to the feeling. It was the kind of sickness he wished away with every breath, every movement painful as his legs declined him the privilege of fixing himself a glass of water. Instead he just lay there, wishing that sleep would take him away from it again. In those moments he vowed he would never drink again, but as soon as his head cleared in the later afternoon he would celebrate the relief with a cold drink.

The week of clarity he'd allowed himself only made him more frustrated with the pain. It had been gone for a while, even the pain in his throat from his ashy addiction seemed to fade a little, only to spike in his throat with a new assault of smokey inhales. How many times he'd have to regret it before he'd quit, or die, he couldn't guess.

He flipped his pillow, the cold side easing the pressure in his cranium. It wasn't working. He blinked his eyes open. Soon the streaming light would be yellowy enough to sting his eyes. In a heavy breath he lifted himself up, surveying his spread body before him as if it were an outfit to assemble. He stretched his limbs to life and almost crawled to the edge of the bed, finding a half-drunk glass of water, which he gladly finished off.

He dipped his torso, seeking out the brand new shoes he'd discarded under the lip of the bed. Stuffed into one of the black-laced sneakers lay a couple of prescription bottles. Pickles picked one up, tossed it aside and grabbed the other. He double checked the label – Valium, 10 mg variety. He unscrewed the cap and took four of them with his last gulp of water.

* * *

William Murderface only made it as far as the border of New Jersey before he decided to turn around. The split second decision he'd made to visit his Grandparents became boring after a couple of hours on a bus, and so predictably, he headed back to New York City.

He considered returning to the beaten up old house in Brooklyn where he'd left his friends, but decided against it. Instead, he returned to Manhattan, scouring the usual spots for the usual suspects. Only the fourth house he checked was still occupied.

Bobby, an older, crustier man than William himself answered the door of the flakey old building on the outskirts of Chinatown. Wide eyed and shaking, he gave him a nod in invitation, , and he followed his greying friend down the dark hall to the kitchen. The house was old, not much light penetrated through to the living areas, but Bobby had rigged up an eclectic assortment of light sources to make up for it. Naked bulbs hung from the ceiling, lava lamps lit the corners, and in one instance a television, playing static, illuminated a stack of scrapped documents on Bobby's counter top.

It seemed a custom amongst Murderfaces' acquaintances to pick up where they had left off when they last saw him. He wouldn't tolerate small talk. Luckily, much of the time, neither did his friends. A man he'd only been introduced to as Blamps occupied a beaten floral lounge chair in the corner of the kitchen, rolling sleepy mucus around in his mouth as he dozed.

Bobby only drank spirits, whenever he did drink. With shaky hands he produced a bottle and poured them both a schnapps, Murderface fished out his cigar.

"Glad to see you back again, Will. Seems like you were gone a while. How long did they hold you for this time?"

"Ahh s'chlike… three monthsch maybe, schomethin' like that." He puffed on his cigar.

"Who did you go for?" Bobby fiddled with the leftmost knob on the television beside him, fuzzy shapes on it twisted back and forth, but the image never cleared.

"Ahh, schome guy. Tim hooked me up with the gig, no big deal. I don't uschually go go jail for jerksch that I don't know, but that baschtard sure did pay pretty well for it!"

To demonstrate his earnings, he produced a wad of cash from his pocket, tossing it carelessly on the counter top. Bobby eyed it, twitching a little, and sipped his drink.

"Well, that's something. You won't go back for a while then?"

"Depedsch how boring it isch out here."

Bobby gestured for the cigar, and Murderface puffed once more before handing it over.

"Ah well, life can't always be interesting. It's Valentine's day, you know. Gotta take the misses out for a meal or some bullshit. Don't know why I still bother." He shook his head, exhaling. He ashed the cigar over the old tv set and passed it back.

William studied his friend for a minute. Every time he saw Bobby he was horribly aged. A Doom metal legend, his potential was squandered on drugs, enough that he should be dead. Doctors marveled at his cockroach survivalist composure. Murderface wasn't worried about any of this, but his twisting, aged face fascinated him. Even more curious was his girlfriend. 30 years his junior, the girl was pretty good looking. Suddenly needed to boost his self-esteem, he opened his mouth.

"Y'know, I had a girlfriend."

William looked down at his cigar, turning it in his fingers carefully.

"Oh yeah? What happened to her?" Bobby scratched his wrist.

"I went to jail, obviouschly that'sch what happened!" He slammed his fist down on the counter in front of him, a surge of impatience overcoming him.

"So you… Just… Didn't ever see her again?"

"No, of coursche not!"

"Of.. Of course not? You know, if she was your girlfriend, she was probably waiting for you…"

"No, no… Schurely-"

"Yeah man!" Blamps sat up, suddenly awake, wiping sticky goo from his lip.

"You could probably go sweep her off her feet right now if you wanted to! Just like, show up at her house dressed like a lumberjack!"

William frowned at Bobby, confused.

"A… Like a lumberjack?"

"Yeah! I dunno, in movies girls always dream about big strong men coming to save them, like the lumberjack from Cinderella, or whatever!"

Blamps paused, looking to his friend for help. Bobby scratched his chin, then snapped his fingers as an idea hit him.

"Yep. Dude the lumberjack in… In Scary Movie."

"That'sch not a fairytale." Murderface rolled his eyes, second guessing himself.

"But there's still a lumberjack in it." Bobby cocked his head, grinning. Blamps clapped his hands and pointed at him, nodding his head in agreement.

'Sco wait, wait…" He put out his cigar, the end too sloppy to puff from anymore.

"If I just go to her house dressed as a lumberjack then sche'll schtill schleep with me?"

"Yeah, I 'd say so." Bobby raised his glass and drank.

"Hey, you know when you say a word too many times and it stops being a word… Lumberjack… Luummbbeerrr…" Bobby furrowed his brow.

"Lumberjack. Lumberjack. Lumberjack." Blamps echoed him.

William shook his head.

"Why didn't I think of thisch before? It'sch perfect! Chicksh love that schtuff! Alright!"

He turned to leave without another word, and only when he reached the front door did his friend snap out of their idiotic chanting.

"Hey! Murderface!"

He was already at the gate, but he turned to face Bobby, who stood on the front steps.

"I forgot why I asked you over, man. Here!" He tossed a stack of stapled papers from the verandah, which Murderface caught between his palms.

"Just a little report on the industry, you know." Bobby tapped his nose.

"And oh, I was actually hoping you'd play a gig with me Saturday night, Heinzman bailed on us. You know how flaky people are in this shithole."

Murderface looked down. The glossy flyer tacked onto the front of the stack was the same one he'd ripped off the wall a few days earlier.

"You mean it? Not juscht at practice thisch time?!" He looked back up, wide eyed. Bobby wasn't joking.

"Ah, you've earned it. Plus, where am I gonna find a bass player at this short notice. Will you play it?"

"Fuck yeah I'll play it! I'll schee you real schoon, dude! Aw fuck yeah!" He pumped his fist into the air and started off down the street, leaving Bobby itching himself on the doorstep.

* * *

"Why did the first day of school have to be on Valentine 's Day…"

Anthony whined, slouching against the wall outside Toki's room. Toki swung around the corner and shut the door behind him as his pal sank down beside him.

"Valhanteen?"

"Oh, right, they don't call it that in Norway do they… Ahh.. February 14th, you know, romance and hearts and all that stuff?"

"Alle hjerters dag…" Toki turned his head to the ceiling, smiling gently.

"Yeah, and it's today! And we have class."

Toki paused, contemplating, fumbling with his keys as he attempted to lock his dorm room.

"It's okay if we hads class. Valentinsdag is for peoples who ams in love!"

Anthony stared.

"It should be a public holiday."

Toki shrugged and started down the hall. Anthony followed.

"Ahh... Yeah… So, I bought a truck yesterday." The blonde shrugged his backpack on one shoulder.

"Oh ja?"

"Yeah… You wanna go for a little drive? It'll be a good night for it…"

"Ams raining, though."

"So, yeah! Good time to go for a drive."

"Is always hards to drive in the rains… All sliding everywhere, and sleet on the roads."

"I think you'll find it's not so bad here."

Toki's expression was worried, so he continued.

"Anyway I think it's going to clear up soon, was watching the weather in the rec room."

"Oh…"

"Yeah, so, let's go? There's a spot I wanna show ya."

"In manhattans?" Toki questioned.

"Yeah, it's up on a hill.. Rich people live there, but there's enough room by the road for us to just chill for a while. I got a bottle of scotch we can take!" He smiled, almost genuinely. Toki didn't notice either way, and so he smiled back.

"I have first up in G14. You have, what, theory now?"

Toki nodded.

"Ja, A2."

"Okay man. I'll come find you around 7, yeah?"

"Okay pal."

* * *

What a fucken' day. Sitting at the bar Pickles was able to crack his first smile of the day, raising his beer to the others to toast.

"Cheers!" Magnus laughed a little, bringing his drink to his lips.

"To love!" Their manager smiled. Nathan stopped his drink before it pressed against his lip.

"Uhh, that's pretty fucken' gay, Charles." He growled. Skwisgaar nodded.

"Ja, I amnst toasting to 'dat."

Charles shrugged.

"It was just in the ah, spirit of the day." He swayed a little. He and Skwisgaar had been at the bar longer than the others, and it showed.

"How about we toast to our gig, huh? It's gonna go off! Right?" Magnus smirked.

"Yeah, 'dat'll do." Pickles raised his glass, and the others followed.

"Tos de gig!"

They clinked bottles again. Pickles continued to chug after the others had stopped, swallowing three quarters of the foamy liquid in one go. Somewhere in the back of his mind he remembered he'd sworn that morning that he'd never drink again, but he felt fine now, so his own advice was discarded.

The bar was around the corner from Hell's kitchen. A parade of couples perusing the restaurants streamed past the window. Groups of friends sheltering from the love-storm occupied the bar with them, and the atmosphere was cheery. Quietly, the band was relieved by this, except for maybe Skwisgaar, who didn't seem to give a shit.

"I wanna play some fucken DARTS!" Nathan exclaimed, nudging Skwisgaar with his elbow.

"What ams happen when you lose?" Skwisgaar sipped his drink, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm not gonna lose."

"But whens you does…"

Nathan huffed.

"If, in some alternate universe, I lose… Then, yeah, I dunno, I'll eat my fucken' shoes. Or whatever."

Skwisgaar blew air through his pursed lips, and Nathan stuck a finger out at him.

"If you lose though, if you lose then you have to sleep with a fan that I get to choose. I get to choose them." He grinned under his dark hair, and Skwisgaar swayed his hip, resting a hand on it.

"Fines! And I ams will wins at 'dat too! Yous on!" The pair of them turned away from the bar. Magnus sipped the last of his drink.

"I'm versing the winner." He sauntered after them.

Charles smiled and shook his head.

"I thought you weren't gahnna drink wit' us no more." Pickles drummed his fingers on his glass.

"This is still technically my week off." Charles frowned.

"And besides, this is my last drink." He tipped his glass to the redhead and sipped from it.

Pickles shrugged.

"Well, suit yerself. I t'ink you worry too much."

"Do you?" the lawyer raised his eyebrows.

"Yeh! I mean, how hard can it pahssibly be?"

Charles put his glass down, suddenly serious.

"This is not my only job you know, Pickles. I'm managing this band outside of the system. There will be plenty of paperwork on my desk when I get back to LA."

Pickles shrugged.

"Well why don'tya just, y'know, put us in the system?"

Charles looked down, shaking his head.

"It isn't time. Not yet."

"Not time?" Pickles wrinkled his nose, confused.

"I mean, ah – we will send the label head a demo, if this concert goes to plan. He chooses who to sign. We merely need more experience – and a complete ensemble, to be frank."

"We need more people?"

"Well, yes Pickles. We currently do not have a bass player."

"Oh, right." He scratched his head.

Charles kept frowning, Pickles tensed.

"Pickles… I found something in your suite this morning."

"Oh yeah?" He relaxed a little. Charles didn't look away, but he pulled the crumpled plastic baggie from his pocket, placing it on the table.

Pickles snatched it, leaning forward, he whispered.

"Are you crazy?! Don't put 'dat shit on the bar like 'dat!"

"If you're ashamed of it, then perhaps you shouldn't be doing it."

Pickles looked up and met his eyes, anger dissolving into guilt.

"I don't just mean the pills, Pickles."

The redhead piped up defensively.

"'Dat's all dere is, I swear!"

He felt pressure on his wrist. He looked down, Charles gripped him. He looked up again into his eyes. They narrowed as Charles squeezed.

"Ah fuck." Pickles hissed, trying to pull his arm away.

Charles relaxed his grip a little, but didn't let him go. Gently, but firmly, he pulled the drummer to him, and peeled back his sweatband with nimble fingers.

Neither of them needed to look down to know the redhead's wrist was covered in pot marks. Charles blinked and lowered his gaze regardless, and Pickles snatched his arm away.

"Alright, alright." His eyes darted around, hoping no one had seen.

"This is not like your last band, Pickles. I can't have you inebriated, or dead."

Pickles felt the need to answer back, like a teenager to a parent. He bit down on his tongue.

"I ain't the only one, ya know."

"That may be so, Pickles. But you are at risk, more than any of them."

Pickles didn't reply. He had half a mind to ask why it mattered, but inviting emotions into the conversation would open up a whole new can.

"I'm goin' for a cigarette." Pickles stood, motioning for Charles to follow. The lawyer finished his glass and stood.

The bar had a tiny balcony out the back, overlooking the courtyard of some apartment building. Pickles lit up, exhaling the first lungful quickly.

"Look, Ahfdensen. It ain't as easy as you make it out ta be. You wouldn't know anythin' about it."

Charles remained silent, so Pickles dragged.

"If I can't handle it, 'den I'm comin' to see you about it."

"It really is a personal issue, I-" Pickles stepped up to him, glaring, cutting him off.

"If you wanna influence me, personally, inta given' somethin' up that I ain't comfortable with, 'den maybe it should be uncomfortable for you." His eyes flickered.

Charles felt an awkward tension rise in his stomach. He suspected Pickles felt it too.

"I'll ah, be there to help you to my professional capacity."

Pickles scoffed.

"I can't tell ya what it's gonna be like, but I don't think it's gahnna be 'professional."

"Yes. Well. Speaking of unprofessional, I-" Pickles cut him off again, stepping closer.

"Let's not talk about it, alright?"

Charles was thankful the patio was empty. He was so… Close. He was concerned at how unnerving the tiny drummer had become. He tensed.

"Yer on holiday, anyway…"

Pickles raised himself on his tip toes, and Charles' skin pricked. The redhead leant in, and he could only sway backwards an inch, the smallest resistance he could offer. His brain fuzzed, and he closed his eyes. He felt his breath, and lightly, finally, their lips brushed. His stomach turned and rose in a burst of butterflies. Before he could move back, or maybe forward, the contact was broken.

He shook his head to clear it, gripping the handrail behind him, he instead opened his eyes. Pickles was turned towards the doorway, a panicked look in his eyes. In it stood Nathan, his expression blank.

* * *

Anthony caught Toki on his way up from dinner and the pair of them walked the distance to the campus car park, Anthony's satchel swinging from Toki's shoulder.

On the way they talked about class. Toki admitted he hadn't met anyone new, and Anthony feigned sympathy. They both played string instruments, and after discussing their schedules, they figured out they would only share one class a week together. Anthony had classes 3 days a week, back to back, and Toki's stretched out over the whole 5 days, mostly early in the day. Toki was disappointed that he wouldn't see too much of his friend, but Anthony assured him that making friends wasn't impossible, and the Norwegian cheered up as they walked.

Anthony's truck was an old, but not ancient white Toyota truck. Anthony assured him that he'd had the engine replaced. Toki, knowing nothing of mechanics, smiled and nodded as Anthony explained the specifics of it. They strapped in and Anthony rolled down his window to smoke.

At the first set of traffic lights off campus the blonde produced a sealed bottle from under the seat, passing it to his passenger. Toki cracked the cap as though he'd done it a hundred times before, and after a meaningful look from his friend, he took a swig of it.

The taste bothered him less than the previous evening, but his throat still clenched around the savory liquid, causing him to squint in the dim street light.

As they drove out of the center of town, a distortion of sound hung in the air. Questioning, Toki stuck his head out the window, looking around for a source for the sound.

"I think there's a concert on tonight, downtown." Anthony exhaled and ash billowed in the air.

"Strange, I didn't know there were many big venues outside of like, Webster's, or Madison Square, you know?"

Toki didn't know, but his mouth curled into a smile as he absorbed the music.

"Must be a bloody loud set."

They continued outward, and the music faded a little, but never died. The vehicle wound around the hilly side of a rise. As the city lowered beneath them Toki wondered at the lights. New York City was no Lillehammer.

After a slow, winding incline Anthony stopped the car at a bend in the road. It was not an official rest area, but the ledge to the left of them spread out enough for patchy grass to grow on the wayside. Anthony clicked the lights off and opened his door. Toki followed his lead and the pair dispatched onto the gravel.

Anthony jumped the barrier on the roadside and held out his hand for his friend, who took it. The pair of them walked a short distance and settled on the edge of the steep hill. The lights behind them were dull at best, streaming out from the closed gates of the elaborate housing that sat on the hill, but in front of them the city glowed.

"Pretty, right?" Anthony patted his pockets.

"Shit, my cigarettes are I the truck, I'll be right back."

He handed the bottle of scotch to Toki, who smiled and took it. He looked down at the black liquid, darkened by the night. He took a breath and drank from it deeply.

He sipped in succession, until he'd gulped enough of the stuff to get himself sufficiently pissed, though his bloodstream continued to process it.

"Woah, hey, slow down on that stuff." Anthony pulled the bottle from his friend's lips when he returned, a splash of it staining the Norwegian's jeans.

"Oh… I'ms sorry." Toki worried.

"No, I mean, it's not expensive, just… It's a high percentage. You don't have to drink much of it. You really don't know nothing', do you?"

Toki smiled, embarrassed, though the dull light only caught his grin.

"You really haven't ever got drunk before you came here?"

"M' Dad used to drinks it at home, but I never reallys thoughts abouts it." He admitted, sheepishly playing with his silky hair.

"Well hey, how do you like it?" Anthony sipped, then fumbled for his lighter.

"It feels… Warm. I wish that's I hads it in Norway, it so colds there, drinks this would cans warm me up!"

"How did you go to high school and not get drunk with your friends?"

Toki looked down, in the darkness Anthony couldn't make out his pout.

"Friends… Ja… I was went to school at home there…"

"So, you never drank with anybody?"

"I didn'ts knows no body, nobodies outsides of m'families… 'Dats and the church, and some peoples in the town what owns the stores…" He sighed, more frustrated than anything, and took the bottle Anthony offered to him.

"Wow, super isolated, huh? That's really interesting…" His eyes glinted with red from the cherry of his cigarette, Toki took little notice.

"So, you've never had a girlfriend or nothin'?"

"Girlfriend? Oh.. Wowee…" Already turned away, he blushed, fiddling with a lock of brown hair.

"Oh, so, then you've never kissed anyone?"

"No, nots really… The other nights, though…" He trailed, analyzing his memory.

"Oh yeah, you were mackin' on that girl at the party, huh?"

"Nos! She was… I was…" He struggled.

"It's okay, man. I mean, that stuff doesn't really count…"

They sat in uncomfortable silence for a minute, Anthony took a big swig of the bottle.

"Was my first kiss!" Toki exclaimed, hunching forward.

"Ams meant to be special… I really fucks it up."

"Hey, hey… Don't worry about it. You can't put too much stock in things like that, I kissed a girl when I was like four years old, mum told me about it, I don't even remember her. It happens to a lot of people."

Toki coughed, blinking to steady his blurring vision.

"Meants to means somet'ings. I wanted to find some special ladies here, you knows, but it's gone now, my first ever kiss…" He trailed, audibly sighing.

Anthony narrowed his eyes.

"You know… It doesn't have to be… Girls."

Toki turned to face him, the dim glow of the city catching his face.

"Whats you mean?"

"I mean, with kissing. You can kiss whoever you want to."

Far below in the city a cry went out, the band that was playing finished their last song. Anthony continued, an impromptu plan formulating.

"Do you like me, Toki?"

He caught the innocent look in the Norwegian's eyes before he turned away again, facing the city.

"Of course I likes you, you's my best friend!"

Anthony pressed the illumination button on his watch, his face underlit with the green of it.

"There's still a minute left until midnight… I know this… Maybe this is weird, but, you don't want your first kiss to be with just some girl, right?" He shuffled a little closer to his European friend.

"What's it like?" Toki whispered, still frozen. Some kind of rigid curiosity, paired with his trademark naivety seeded all of his trust in his friend.

"It's nice, it's real nice, if you get it right…"

Anthony reached out, softly gripping Toki's chin. As he pulled him closer they locked eyes for a second. His gaze was steely as ever, Toki's eyes were wide, expectant, _wanting_.

A distortion sounded in the distance, the band was playing an encore, and the song started up as their lips met.

Toki furrowed his brow. Their teeth clashed together in the beginning, and he would have pulled back if it weren't for Anthony's gentle grip on his chin. He pressed forward anyway; pursing his lips as Anthony attempted to coach him, softly, slowly pressing his lips to his friends. Anthony's lips felt soft, confident, warm… Though the gesture oozed encouragement he was still rigid. His mind was split between the kiss and the position of his body being craned to the side, the arm he was leaning on splintered with a cramp. He did his best to ignore it and pushed forward into the kiss, surprising his friend, who took the gesture as one of desire, pushing back fervently.

Not wanting to break the kiss first, Toki shifted himself, almost shaking, to take the pressure more comfortably. Instinct took over and he reached forward, snagging his fingers on the collar of Anthony's shirt. In turn, Anthony slid his hand from his parker jacket and ran it up the back of Toki's head.

When they finally broke apart their faces remained close. Together they exhaled, eyes meeting once again. A roar went up from below. They'd kissed through the duration of the song.

"There…" Anthony whispered, still not drawing back. The air between them had grown hot, Toki's face flushed in the darkness, though his back remained cool in the dark winter breeze.

Their breath had turned hot, Toki exhaled, just gently, and the mist of it hung in the air.

"Whats comes next?" he whispered, mind whirling.

Anthony smiled, the shadows of the night highlighting his high cherubian cheekbones.

"So much comes next… But let's go home, yeah?"

His grin flashed away as he turned, the empty space leaving Toki to focus on the fading stars in his vision.

"Ja, I haves… Early class."

Anthony stood, helping his drunken friend to his feet. His cigarette, long forgotten, had burned out. He flicked it over the ridge, and the grey dot of it disappeared amongst the rocky slope.

They started towards Anthony's truck, hand in hand.

* * *

After a day full of distractions, Murderface was feeling surprisingly bright. He'd returned to his Grandma's halfway house to find a flannel shirt, boots, and axe, searched high and low for denim overalls that actually fit his awkward, skinny-fat frame, successfully stolen them, and then got lost trying to remember the exact address of the girl he used to know, walking by couples and crowds and sparkly, heart-shaped wares and displays until the early hours of night. But finally, he was at her door.

In his back pocket he'd stuffed a ragged bouquet, and now he turned the axe in his hands, butterflies in his stomach as he imagined the exchange. He'd crack the door open with it, it would be a surprise, she'd be afraid until she saw his face, and she'd melt back into his arms – and then…

He shook his head. He could get excited later. He took a breath, steadied himself, and swung at the door. It splintered and he grinned. Somewhere down the hall of the vast apartment building someone stuck their head out to observe.

He swung again, and the wood burst through. Light streamed in through the hole. He brought his instrument back again and hit for a third time. The old door creaked and fell forward, the rusted hinges coming apart. It boomed as it hit the floor.

He stood still a moment, gritting his teeth from the sound, before stepping forward into the settling dust.

"Hi, honey! I'm home – I mean, I've come to reschcue you! I mean – it's Valentine's day, there's a fire in my pantsch?"

Nothing sturred, so he stepped forward. He was beginning to wonder if he'd scared her off, if maybe he hadn't said exactly what a lumberjack-stripper would have, when he noticed the sheets covering the furniture.

The light inside was dull, only streaming in from the doorway and an adjacent window, but the white dusty covers were solid. She must have moved away.

He lowered his axe and frowned, quietly strolling through the place. He wiped his finger on a countertop. He figured by the dust on his finger that she had been gone a while.

He walked through to the living room. Everything was just like he remembered it. He pulled the sheet free from the couch and smiled as it was revealed. Stained, and a little torn up. That was where he'd first kissed her. Some house party, she was way too drunk, though he knew it he couldn't help himself. He'd been so surprised when she called him the next day. That had never happened before.

He turned and walked through to the bedroom. The mattress was bare. He sat, laying his axe loosely in his grip.

That was almost a year ago, she'd been the only person besides his Grandma who'd ever said _I love you William._

She'd said it just that once. It was as hard for him to admit to himself now as it had been then. He bit his lip, the uncomfortable feeling of sadness swept over him. He wouldn't just miss getting laid. Her freckled shoulders, arms strong but doughy when she wrapped them around him. He wished he didn't have to remember. He burned up from the inside, embarrassed and self-conscious and at the same time bullying himself for those feelings. He tried to swallow past the lump in his throat, hoping something would bury the memories again.

His silent request was granted when he heard yelling in the hall.

"It was like _The Shining_, I'm telling you! This grotesque, manic looking guy!"

He winced. _Grotesque._ Someone stepped across the threshold and suddenly his self-loathing evaporated in wake of self-preservation. He looked towards the bedroom window, stepped to it, and silently pried it open, tossing his axe onto the fire escape outside.

He skillfully hoisted himself out of the opening, and even shut it behind himself. He pulled the crumpled flowers from his back pocket and stared at them for a moment.

He dropped his head, tossing the flowers at the foot of the window, before slinking quietly down the fire escape.


End file.
